Burns Song Trilogy I: A Smithers Named Desire
by Lambent Flame
Summary: After Smithers gets exceptionally drunk, Mr. Burns learns of his assistant's true feelings for him, forcing him to re-evaluate their relationship. Has he found true love at last? Or is he about to embark on yet another doomed romance?
1. Personnel Best

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 1

Waylon Smithers sipped from his cup of coffee as he reviewed personnel files. Specifically, his own. He loved to read over Monty Burns' evaluations of him, even though there were many critical comments. He valued those the most, as they provided him insight into how to better please his boss. He took a framed 9x13 photo of Mr. Burns from his desk and drew it close to his face, stroking the glass over his boss' face, tracing well-worn smudge marks and absentmindedly voicing a pleased moan.

He checked that his door was locked, then furtively went back to his desk and from a lower cabinet, he removed a false bottom to access a cache of letters on various types of paper in various stages of yellowing and crumpling, everything from the most ornate and pristine stationery marked with painstaking calligraphy to scribblings on twenty-year-old coffee-stained complimentary hotel note paper. One of the latter was the first time he had committed his feelings for Burns to writing: _I've never felt anything like this before,_ he had scrawled into the sheet of paper. _I'm inexorably drawn to him. Life will never be the same for me again._

Some notes were fleeting comments scrawled on paper scraps:

 _Hotel mistakenly roomed us together, and he didn't demand a separate room!_

 _He hugged me!_

 _He fell asleep against me on the plane. I held his hands and nuzzled his head. He even drooled on me! I didn't want that plane to ever land._

Others were elaborate declarations of love, such as this one on orange stationery:

 _My Dearest Darling Monty Burns:_

 _In our fifteen years working together, I have developed a strong affinity for you. Most people don't see you how you really are. They don't deserve to know the real you; they've earned your scorn. I, too, am misunderstood. But you understand me, except for one thing: you don't understand the depth of my devotion to you._

 _And why shouldn't I be completely devoted to you? You are the perfect male specimen: powerful, outspoken, ruthless, refined, with a carefully-controlled gentle spirit, and you cut a handsome figure. When I'm around you, your mere proximity exhilarates me. Your touch elates me. I gaze into your eyes and am overtaken by an uncontrollable urge to please you in any way imaginable. You're my eternal companion, and there is nothing I wouldn't do if it meant we could be together on a deeper level._

 _I know a sexual relationship is most likely out of the question, but I still desire greater intimacy - to be able to freely express how I feel. I would give anything to kiss you. I want to kiss you long, hard, and often, but I would enthusiastically settle for occasionally kissing you on the cheek. Tell me what it takes to fulfill you. And if you have the slightest curiosity: let me take you, Monty, let me indulge myself for once._

 _I love you more than life itself, Monty. I want you in my arms so I can keep you safe in your vulnerable moments. I want your lips on mine to ease the pains of this life. I want you to take me in your arms. You are strong-willed, and you can overpower me despite your frail body, which I love every inch of. Cuddle against me in bed or just on long flights. But most of all, I want you. I want to be near you, to laugh and glower and plot and unravel and unwind with you. I want us to be together, and for you to know as long as I am with you, you are loved._

 _Your Loving Companion and Assistant, Waylon Smithers_

He studied this one, as it was the closest he got to actually confiding in Burns. "Oh, if only I could muster the courage to give this letter to him."

Mr. Burns' voice cut through on the intercom. "Smithers! I need you."

Although those words were spoken in a work context, they comforted Smithers. As long as Burns needed him, they would be together. He clicked the intercom switch. "Right away, sir," he said, quickly putting away his letters under the cabinet false bottom save the last one, which he tucked into his shirt pocket, and he ran out of the room to attend to Mr. Burns. As he entered the office, he said, "Yes, sir?"

"You're going to be the sole person to file my taxes this year. I can't have Accounts get their grubby hands on it since they've started complaining about all these 'tax laws' I'm 'violating'." He handed Smithers a folder containing a thick stack of papers.

"You can count on me, sir!" He took the papers to his office. As he began preparing the paperwork, he paused over the 'Single' designation. While legally and romantically he was single, socially they functioned as a couple. The thought was comfort enough, for the moment.

After a few hours of filling out forms and looking up tax loopholes, his attention turned again to the love letter tucked in his pocket. He unfolded it and read it for what must've been the thousandth time. After rereading it, he felt a bit peckish and concealed it in his pocket before wandering into the break room to get an apple from the vending machine.

On his way there, a paper posted to the bulletin board caught his eye. He snatched it from the wall and ran back to his office.

"Simpson!" Smithers' curt voice came through the intercom. Homer awoke at his workstation, the giant donut he'd been feasting on revealed to be a figment of his imagination. "Simpson!" he called again. "My office. Immediately."

Homer pried himself out of his chair and lumbered over to Smithers' office. "Okay, okay. Yeesh. What bug crawled up his butt?"

As he arrived, Smithers greeted him with a stern glare. "Are you responsible for this?" He showed Homer a crude two-panel comic of Mr. Burns in a diaper yelling "Nincompoops!" in the first panel and his diaper sagging as he says, "Oh dear," in the second.

Homer cracked up. "Oh, yeah, that. Hee hee! Isn't it hilarious? I mean...nooo..."

"Oh, really? Then why is it signed, 'Homer S.'?"

"Maybe it was another Homer S."

He scoffed at the sheer stupidity. "The consequences of this insubordination will be severe. You will go home and stay there for the rest of the week -"

"Woo hoo!"

" _Without_ pay."

"D'oh!" His expression turned from one of frustration to one of confusion. "I don't get it. How can you not laugh? You get more crap from him than anyone else at this plant."

"Mr. Burns' approach may seem callous at times, but he has the company's best interests at heart, and what's good for business is good for us."

"Oh, come on! He treats you like dirt! Worse than that – he treats you like dirt would treat whatever is lower than dirt."

"I prefer to see it as tough love. He doesn't like to show it, but he really does care about me." He gazed longingly at his photograph of Mr. Burns, then blinked it away and straightened his bow tie. "About us employees, I mean."

"Can I go now? My ass is getting sore." He rubbed his ass, which was oozing out between the seat and the armrests.

"Yes, Simpson. Please go."

After he dislodged himself from the chair, he left the office, and Smithers locked the door to work on a new letter, referencing the older one as he went. It needed to be perfect, and he needed to wait for the perfect moment to deliver it. He was only a couple minutes along when Mr. Burns called him with an urgent need to draw him a relaxing bath, so he haphazardly stuffed the letters into the cabinet without bothering with the false bottom and rushed out.

It wasn't until Homer was about to leave the plant that he realized he had an important unanswered question: was he allowed to come in for morning donuts during his absence? He retraced his steps to find out, then knocked on the door upon his arrival. "Hello? Mr. Smithers? I have a question." He tried the knob. It wasn't locked, so he entered. _Maybe I can find their donut policy somewhere here myself without bothering Mr. Smithers. That's what a model employee would do!_ He rifled through the filing cabinets, disheveling the whole office in the process.

"What's this?" he said, picking up a folded orange paper that had fallen onto the floor. He read it with puerile fascination. "Eww. Oh, man! What a weirdo!" He backed away and retreated to the break room, where he repeated his expressions of dismay.

"What is it?" asked Lenny.

"I just read the grossest, most sickening things! Mr. Smithers wrote this sick letter about how much he wants to be gay with Mr. Burns!"

"Get out of here," said Carl. "I mean, I knew he was gay, but...isn't Mr. Burns 104 years old? No way he's into that."

"I'm telling you guys, I know what I saw!"

As it grew closer to lunch time, more people filtered into the room, many of them gathering around Homer to hear a retelling of what he read. On his way to the executive lunchroom to retrieve lunch for Burns and himself, Smithers saw Homer standing on a table and entered the room to lambast him for his defiance. People snickered at him as he walked past.

One guy said, "I hear you're _hot_ for Mr. Burns," and touched him with an index finger, making a sizzling sound.

"What are you talking about?" he said, chuckling nervously.

"Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad – he's hot for Burnsy!" sang an employee to the tune of "Hot for Teacher". Another guy high-fived him. Smithers felt his stomach drop and his cheeks turn cherry red.

"So...I hear Mr. Burns was giving you a raise," said Lenny, giving him the suggestive elbow and eyebrows.

"Yeah, I hear he gives you _lots_ of raises," said Carl.

"You guys don't know what you're talking about," he said, unconsciously shrinking his shoulders inward and sweating as if he were in a sauna.

Homer continued to regale them with what he read while standing on a table: "...And this is my impression of Mr. Smithers," he said, then clasped his hands together close to his face, leaned to one side, and adopted a high-pitched voice as he said, 'I love you, Mr. Burns. I want to kiss your old, wrinkled, smelly butt!'"

He seethed and said through gritted teeth, "Simpson!"

"Uh-oh."

He dragged Homer along by his tie as the other employees hooted and said, "Look out, Homer, he's going to 'punish' you!" and made whipping sounds.

Once he got Homer back in his office, he slammed the door shut behind them. "What in the _hell_ are you doing to me, Simpson! You think this is funny?"

"Very," he said in a monotone.

"This is not a fucking game. I'll sue your fat ass for creating a hostile workplace environment! What gave you the idea to humiliate me like you humiliated Mr. Burns?"

"Uh, _you_. I saw your letters to Mr. Burns," he said, "I get you being gay, but 'Take me, Monty, let me take you!' Ah ha ha! You can't be serious! He's more than twice your age. You can't possibly think he's attractive."

"Oh. My. God. You read them. I'm ruined," he said, slinking down to the floor and dropping his forehead into his hand. He proceeded to run his fingers through his hair, gripping it with increasing strength. His speech became punctuated by frequent, desperate gasps for air as his throat tightened. "It's... only a matter of time... before... Mr. Burns... finds out. Then I'm... out of here... for good." He began crying and brought his other hand to cover his face. "And shut your fucking mouth about Mr. Burns. He's a handsome man; it doesn't matter to me whether a man is 44 or 104."

"Gee, I didn't mean to _ruin_ you, just emotionally scar you. Tell you what, I'll go tell them I was making it all up."

"It's useless. They'll just think I ordered you to do that."

"Hmm...tough jam you're in."

"Thanks to _you_."

"How about you organize a shindig for employees and go with a fake boyfriend. That way people will think I was just lying for attention."

"Boyfriend? I'm still in the closet; I can't do that!"

"Really? You could've fooled me."

"Well, sort of. There are still people I don't want to know. I mean, I can't introduce anyone as my boyfriend to Mr. Burns."

"You don't have to _call_ him your boyfriend. Just call him a close friend you've been seeing for a few months, hold his hand a couple times, and everyone will assume he's your boyfriend."

"That's the best idea you've had the entire time you've worked here! If you weren't the one who put me in this situation, I'd hug you."

"Phew," Homer said, swiping his forehead in relief.

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** I haven't seen many newer episodes, so I don't know whether it's generally known in Springfield the full extent of Smithers' adulation for Burns, just that he's gay. _The Simpsons_ is pretty selective about continuity (good ol' rubber band continuity), though, so I don't really care if it is established in the series.


	2. Noises On

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 2

"Smithers, help me into my pants," said Mr. Burns, still groggy as he sat up in his bed and gradually opened his eyes.

"With pleasure, sir," he said, removing Mr. Burns' dressing gown and sliding his pants on. The sensation as his hand brushed against Mr. Burns' thigh made his head swim. "Whoops." He had put Mr. Burns' right leg through the left pant hole. "Let's try again." He got it right the second time but couldn't even listen to Mr. Burns' morning gripes, as his mind was thoroughly occupied. "You're going to love the Employee Appreciation Ball tonight. I got your favorite musicians to play, I decorated it just the way you like it, and you'll have a nicer area to dine and dance in away from the riffraff."

"Did you invite a bevy of frisky females?"

"I'm...sure there will be _some_ women there."

"Oh, you modest dog, you," he said, weakly slapping Smithers' back.

Smithers chuckled.

At 7 p.m. inside Springfield's Historic Ballroom and Dance Hall, Smithers stood at the microphone. As the feedback made a screeching sound, he said, "Welcome to the first annual mandatory 'Employee Appreciation Ball' courtesy of Mr. Burns! I hope you all have brought a special someone to enjoy the evening with. And now, let's dance!" He turned the stage over to the band playing swing music. Behind the stage curtain, he spoke to Kevin, a 20-something, tall, blond, muscular man in a sharp tuxedo.

"So," said Kevin, "I'm here to pretend to be your boyfriend, but I'm not allowed to acknowledge our fake relationship as anything but platonic."

"Yes, exactly."

"And you promise you'll get me a date with Jonathan Groff."

"Absolutely. He owes me a favor. But I probably won't have to call in that favor, as you are a hunk." He pinched the muscles on his forearm. "I'm going to go check on Mr. Burns. I'll be right back." As he grew nearer to Burns, he became horrified. He didn't appear to be breathing and was silently choking on a cocktail weenie. "I'll save you, Mr. Burns!" He dragged him out of his chair and proceeded to administer the Heimlich maneuver. Each thrust aroused him, and he wished desperately for the weenie to dislodge quickly. The weenie flew across the table, and color returned to his face. "I'm so glad you're all right!" He grabbed Mr. Burns' shoulders, swiveled him around, and hugged him.

"Yes, yes," he said, slowly extricating himself from Smithers' grasp. "Well, now that oxygen is perfusing through me again, I feel like dancing." Smithers' face perked up, but drooped as Mr. Burns turned to a stylish woman in her 60s. He slunk in his chair. "And boy have I a surprise for you, Waylon. Since you couldn't get a date, I took the liberty of making a few phone calls and inviting a half dozen eligible young bachelorettes for you. They're all at this table." He gestured to six attractive middle-aged women dressed elegantly.

"Oh...you shouldn't have, sir."

"Well, you've been so distressed lately over those salacious rumors. I figured this would help put your mind at ease and lay to rest those abominable allegations. Ta!" He went to dance with his date.

"Hey, do you want to dance?" said Kevin.

"I don't know...he invited these women to dance with me."

The woman beside him tapped him on the shoulder, flashing him a knowing smile. "Go for it."

 _'Damn, is my orientation really such an open secret? Is Mr. Burns the only one who doesn't know?'_ he thought. "Aw, the hell with it," he said, taking a sip of wine then putting his arms around Kevin as they waltzed. "You're a good dancer, Kevin. Where did you learn?"

"My last boyfriend went to the Alvin Ailey school. He taught me a lot of moves. Also, he taught me a lot of different kinds of dances."

Smithers chuckled. "Jonathan is going to love you." A woman shrieked. As the crowd parted around her, he saw Mr. Burns lying on the floor, completely still. He ran to his ailing boss and checked his pulse. Not finding one, he straddled his waist and began chest compressions. "Come on, Monty. Come back to me." As he put his lips around Burns' and breathed into his mouth, all the adrenaline from the dread and the thrill coursed through him yet again, and his passions of fear and longing blended together, morphing into an emotion far more difficult to yoke than either on its own. He checked again for a pulse and continued chest compressions until he found one. "Eureka!" he cried when he did, then gave a few more breaths of air. This was far from the first time he'd had to give CPR to Mr. Burns, but no matter how resilient the old man was, he knew that each time could be the time he didn't make it.

"Why are you sitting on top of me?" he asked feebly.

"I just gave you CPR. I saved your life, sir."

"Well, what are you sitting there for? Do you want a medal?"

"No, sir," he said, dismounting his boss. "You living to see another day is all the thanks I need." He rubbed the inside of Mr. Burns' wrist soothingly. When he was ready to get up, Smithers escorted him back to his table. "I guess you've had enough dancing for today. Instead of those hazardous cocktail weenies, I got you a sandwich."

"Waylon," said Kevin. "I got us cocktails."

"Who is this man, Smithers?"

"He's a friend of mine - Kevin. We met a couple months ago."

"Oh? How come you never mentioned him, hm?"

"I...didn't want to jinx it in case he decided not to be friends."

"Fair enough." He tried to take a bite, but his jaw locked into place. He put down the sandwich and made sounds of distress.

"Oh, dear. Your jaw has locked up again. I knew I should've cut your sandwich into bite-size pieces! I'm so stupid! I'm an utter failure!"

Mr. Burns, annoyed by his melodrama, pointed to his jaw while maintaining a nonchalant expression.

"Oh, right." He helped Mr. Burns gently to the ground, removing his seat cushion to protect his head. "You know the drill. Just relax, and you'll be good as new." He climbed on top of him once again – for leverage. Mostly. With one strong movement, the jaw popped back into place. He liked reducing Burns' jaw. He got to be as close to him as when administering CPR, but there was no immediate threat to his life, and he was helping him. And it gave him an excuse to stroke his cheek. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yes. Excellent," he said, sitting up. "Ahem."

"Oh, sorry," said Smithers, who was still sitting on Burns, scrambling up and helping him to his feet.

Studying Smithers' face, he said, "The evening is half over, you're surrounded by gorgeous women, and you're looking tenser than ever. What in the blazes is the matter with you?"

"Well. It might have something to do with the fact you've already tried to die on me twice in the last forty minutes."

"What you need is some alcohol to energize you. That's why you have such trouble with women - you're too uptight."

"But sir, I need to be sober to drive you home tonight."

"Bah! I'll drive us. You enjoy yourself. You do better work when you're relaxed. I command you to get nice and lushy."

"Yes, sir," he said, sipping his cocktail. "Keep them coming," he said to Kevin.

By the end of the evening, which consisted of some dancing with a few of the women but mostly sitting at his table chatting with them, Mr. Burns, and Kevin, he was soused. "You know what I like best about Mr. Burns? Everything."

Mr. Burns yawned. "Yes, well, we had better get going. Smithers, you'll stay in my guest room tonight since you're in no condition to drive yourself home, and I'll want you close by in case a rogue cocktail weenie attempts to suffocate me again." It was Mr. Burns' guest room, as it was his mansion, but it was more aptly 'Smithers' room', as he stayed there so frequently that he kept a set of clothes, a toothbrush, and a monogrammed robe there.

"Okay, Mr. Burns. I'll be right there." His head lolled onto the table. Kevin helped him stand, Smithers' arms draped around his shoulders to steady himself as he stumbled along behind Mr. Burns, who led the way to his car. He slipped his hand in Mr. Smithers' back pocket and squeezed his buttock in clear view of the employees. "Oh, Kevin, you naughty boy," he said, pawing at his chest and giggling.

The employees, seeing Mr. Smithers cavorting with his handsome fake date, began to suspect Homer misread the letter. Carl said, "I mean, if he can get a young, fit guy like that, why would he bother with Mr. Burns?"

"Are you sure that letter was addressed to Mr. Burns?" said Lenny. "I mean, maybe that guy's last name is Barns or something."

"Yeah, shame on you Homer for reading his love letters and making fun of him," said Carl as the crowd dispersed, angry at Homer's thoughtlessness while ignoring their own.

* * *

As Mr. Burns pulled into his mansion with surprisingly few dents in the car, he chatted light-heartedly about their excursion. "Oh, Smithers, you were the gayest I've ever seen you."

"Mr. Burns! I can explain..."

"No need. I know it's the alcohol that loosened your inhibitions and enabled you to sit back and enjoy life."

"Ohhh, right. Yes, I've been very gay tonight. And to think, it was all your idea." He chuckled at the double entendre only he picked up on. They disembarked from the car and sauntered into his mansion, Mr. Burns helping Smithers keep steady in a reversal of their usual roles. "Let's go get you changed. You can't sleep in formal wear," he said, loosening Mr. Burns' bow tie with a lustier enthusiasm than he would ordinarily allow, letting brushes of skin against skin linger and not even attempting to conceal the hungry glimmer in his eyes as the tie hung loose around his collar.

"Now, now, not so hasty. I'm breaking out a bottle of champagne before I retire." He retrieved the bottle and two glasses. "I think I'll take my champagne in bed. Come to bed with me, Waylon."

"Absolutely." Mr. Smithers followed him eagerly to his bedroom and pulled out a corkscrew as Mr. Burns sat on his bed. While uncorking the champagne bottle, Smithers drunkenly tipped it sideways, and it spilled all over Mr. Burns' crotch and his bedsheets. "Oops. I'm so _sorry_ , sir. I'll get new sheets," he said, pouring Mr. Burns a glass before heading out to the laundry room. Mr. Burns poured a glass for Smithers as he waited. He returned with warm, dry sheets and a choice of several dressing gowns. He swiftly replaced the sheets and fluffed his pillows, then sat beside him to undo his pants. His coordination was sufficiently impaired, however, that he kept missing the zipper and nearly grabbed his crotch. He giggled. "Oh, my..." He finally got it, unzipped him, then helped pull the pants off. He handed him new undergarments and watched him change them, unaware his facade of professional disinterest was fading fast as more of the alcohol hit him. He then helped with the shirt buttons, undoing them with the same concupiscent enthusiasm with which he undid Mr. Burns' bow tie. "My God, you're sexy."

"Thank you, Smithers. I am indeed a veritable sex god."

"You have no idea, sir. _No_ idea," he said with a giddy, guttural emphasis. He helped him into his dressing gown, his hand brushing against his back in the process and making Smithers shudder in delight. "You have no idea how bad I've wanted you all night." He leaned him back against the bed, cradling his neck in one hand and the small of his back in another, and kissed him fervently, frantically probing his mouth, making the most of his impulsive moment. His mouth still just centimeters from Burns' lips, he said, "I'm always so close to you, but I can never touch you like I _really_ want to, day in, day out, day in. Do you know how hard it is?" He pressed his cheek against Burns' cheek and began to softly weep.

Panic-stricken, Mr. Burns said, "I'm getting an idea..."

He turned his head to gaze longingly into Burns' eyes and saw the fear in them. That look brought Smithers back down to Earth, and he pushed his glasses up his nose and said, "Oops. I shouldn've said that. I _definitely_ shouldn've _done_ that. Oh God, what have I done?" He averted his eyes as his face flushed red from embarrassment rather than alcohol and ran out to his car. He drove himself home, too mortified to worry about the carnage that could come of that decision.

Mr. Burns poured Smithers' untouched champagne into his own glass and chugged it.


	3. The Young and the Evil

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 3

The next morning, Smithers awoke to a his phone ringing. Groggily he said, "Huh-lo," hiccuping out the last syllable.

Mr. Burns spoke curtly. "My office. Today. Twelve o'clock." And at those words he staggered into his car and drove to the plant, sitting in his car sobbing and emptying a flask of Scotch for the next few hours until his appointment.

At precisely 12 p.m., Smithers entered the foreboding room, pale and shaking and somewhere between hungover and drunk, anticipating Burns' acrid rebuke. He hadn't eaten anything yet, as he would have vomited anything solid.

"Smithers."

"Y-y-y-yes sir." He got on his knees. "I'm so, so, _so_ sorry; I never wanted to take advantage of you, I was drunk and – it was a lapse in judgment, and I know that's no excuse, but -"

"Do you think I'm an invert?"

"What? No, sir! Of course not."

"Do others think I am... _that way_?"

"N-no, sir. They understand that you don't return my...feelings."

"But you are."

He stood up, his eyes fixed to the floor. "I suppose there's no point denying it to you now."

"No. So you _were_ being sincere during those moments of impending doom when you told me you loved me, when you kissed me...I knew there was something odd about it, but I didn't expect _this_ of you." He briefly contemplated a photo he had earlier taken out of his desk, a picture of Smithers happily accompanying Burns as he received an award for his business success, his arm around Burns' back and his gaze focused on Burns' eyes. "I was a fool, wasn't I, Waylon?"

Despite the tension, Smithers' heart fluttered in a good way, as it always did when Burns used his first name. "No, Monty. I was the fool, pining for a man I knew I could never have. But I always hoped..."

"Hoped what? That I would want you to make love to me like a woman? Poppycock! I acquire whatever draws my fancy. If I had wanted you, I would have taken you. What made you think you could ascend from lackey to lover?"

Tears flowing unrestrained from his devastated visage, Smithers sniveled, "I - I don't know, sir...I don't know!"

"For God's sake, man, pull yourself together!"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." He fell to his knees sobbing.

"Did I ever give you hope?" He spat out angrily. "Did I seem _that way_ to you?" He stood, approached his kneeling assistant, and pulled at his lavender bow tie, tilting his head upward. "Tell me. How long have you felt this way about me?"

Drawn to his eyes, he stared and said, "About...twenty years."

"Twenty years? Why on Earth did you not give it up?"

"I could never give up on you. As long as there was the slightest chance you might return my feelings, I had to take it – to believe in it."

"Is that why you have dedicated yourself to being my obsequious assistant?"

Smithers said, "I would do anything for you. Even knowing you'll never love me, I will do whatever you want me to."

Burns narrowed his eyes, and with a minacious snarl said, "Then stop loving me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. That's like asking me to give up life itself."

"Really, then?" He pulled out of a desk drawer a curled length of rope, then tossed it to Smithers, though it only went so far as to partially unfurl on the other side of his desk. "I want you to stop loving me, Waylon." Catching him mid-blush, he said, "I know how much you love it when I call you that. I've seen how you blush and titter. I always thought you were just a buckram fellow. But now I know it's due to your depraved desire for me. I demand you terminate it at once."

"I – I told you, I can't. I will love you for as long as I live."

"At once, Smithers!"

Smithers heaved uncontrollably. All his dreams and dedication turned poisonous and drove into him like daggers. "You don't think I've tried? I've tried to stop loving you as soon as I started loving you."

Mr. Burns stood and circled around his desk, shaking his head. "Smithers, Smithers, Smithers...my ever faithful assistant. I guess we'll see just how faithful you are." He kicked the rope toward Smithers. "Stop loving me, Smithers."

His eyes widened in horror. "You want me to kill myself?" he said, noting that one end was tied into a noose.

"No, not at all. But if that's the only way you can extinguish this reprobate fantasy from your brain...do what you must."

Smithers sniffled. "If that's what you really want..." He reached for the rope and placed the loop around his neck. "Just...one last request. Please, permit me to kiss you goodbye. I promise I'll do nothing untoward. Just a chaste kiss on the cheek. That's all I ask."

Burns audibly recoiled, but assented nonetheless with a staid nod. Smithers stood and inhaled deeply, engraving the scent of the old man into his memory as he prepared himself. He embraced Burns firmly and desperately, as if he could squeeze some affection out of him if he just held him tightly enough. He leaned in slowly and pressed his lips against Burns' cheek, simultaneously moaning and snuffling. After twenty seconds, he drew his head slowly back then let it droop down and pressed it against Burns' chest. "Oh, Monty...if you only knew how good you feel to me, you would never ask me to make such an awful choice," he sobbed.

"Waylon, stop, I – can't breathe..."

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, holding onto him just a few seconds more before relenting.

"And take that damned noose off your neck."

"But – I thought you -"

"I wouldn't force you to do something so ghastly. Not in my office, in any event."

He removed the noose from his neck and stared at it in his hands. "Why...? Why, then? Why would you put me through that? And why would you let me -"

"Do you still love me?"

"With all my heart."

"You really can't change, can you?" Smithers shook his head. "If my telling you to commit suicide doesn't kill your feelings for me, you're truly hopeless." He shuddered in revulsion. "Why can't you stop loving me...?" he said in that gentle, helpless tone Smithers found so endearing. "Then we could regain some normalcy."

"I want things to be normal between us again, too. But I can't stop feeling what I feel."

"You could pretend. I would play along."

"Then I'll pretend."

"And I'll play along." They shook hands.

"So...where do we go from here?" Smithers said, his lips quavering.

"You are to resume your normal duties, on the condition that after today is through, you neither speak of your desires, nor shall you attempt to enact them with me. Should you violate this prescript, the penalty will be most _severe_." He tented his fingers. His demeanor turned jovial as he said, "You had better take the rest of the day off until it's time to take me home so you can get your pesky feelings in check. I can't have you blubbering into my coffee, now can I?"

Smithers brightened. "You're not firing me?"

"Of course not. You're a valuable asset of mine. And...I don't hate you..." he trailed off, unsure of whether to finish his thought. "You are one of the few people I don't hate, in fact. I like you. Not in the disturbing way you like me, but in a...friendly way."

"And you still like me? Even though I'm queerer than a three-dollar bill?"

"Oh, Waylon," he said, putting a hand tentatively on his shoulder. "A man with as many skeletons in his closet as I have is in no position to judge you for the disgusting sexual proclivities in yours. But my God, man, go find someone who could reciprocate. You shouldn't torture yourself this way - that's my job!"

"Thank you for understanding me."

"Just returning the favor, old friend. You're the only one who truly understands me. The people of this town only see my evil exterior. But you also see my evil interior."

"You _are_ charmingly evil, sir." He turned toward the door, then paused and turned his head back. "May I...give you one last kiss?"

"You're pushing it, Waylon."

"Thank you, sir," he said, closing the door then leaning back against it and sighing deeply. "He really does care about me."

* * *

Smithers arrived at the end of the work day to chauffeur Mr. Burns to his mansion. As Mr. Burns approached the limo, Smithers silently opened the door for him, then closed it, took his seat behind the wheel, and drove, not a word exchanged between them.

It was Mr. Burns who broke the silence. "I've changed my mind. You're fired."

Smithers stopped breathing and zoned out, ceasing to notice his surroundings as the color drained from his face. He collapsed in a faint, his head hitting the car horn on the way down. The car rapidly approached a curve, still having a great deal of momentum even after Smithers' foot had stopped applying pressure to the gas pedal. The car careened into a ditch and propelled Mr. Burns' forehead to crash against the wall separating him from Smithers.

Sprawled across the floor, Smithers opened his eyes, the world spinning around and a cacophony of indistinguishable voices echoing in his ear accompanied by a high-pitched whine. As the world shuttered into a blurry focus, he realized he must have passed out but couldn't recall the circumstances. He fumbled around the floor and reached up to the seat. Had he passed out in his car and never made it to work? His hand hit upon his glasses, and as he put them on, reality snapped back to him. This was obviously Mr. Burns' limo, and he had obviously crashed it.

"M-Mr. Burns...are you okay, sir? Mr. Burns!" he cried out, wishing he could leap from his seat and pry the divider apart to tend to him. "Mr. Burns..." He focused all his energy into getting up, and he sat himself upright despite the searing pain in his arm. He got out of the car and stumbled to the back door, leaning against the side of the car as he did so. He jerked the handle and thrust the door open, revealing his boss bent forward, head over knees, hanging limply with blood on his forehead. "Mr. Burns!" He swooped into the cab and embraced the old man, his tears flowing onto Burns' shoulder. Still holding Mr. Burns, he reached into his jacket for his phone and dialed 9-1-1. "We had a car accident! Pine Road! By Lake Springfield! Hurry! Mr. Burns is unconscious, but he's alive, please, you have to save him!"

Mr. Burns stirred, but he still wasn't aware of his surroundings or capable of thinking or interacting. Smithers stopped breathing for a moment, hopeful that he would pull through. As Mr. Burns groped to comprehend his situation and his world came into focus, foremost on his radar was the sensation of a deep, calming pressure. His cognitive faculties began to return to him, and he realized it was Smithers hugging and sobbing on him, whispering disjointed apologies and stroking the back of his head in a most gratifying manner. "Way..."

"Yes, Mr. Burns?" he said, backing up enough to look into his eyes, still running his hand through the hair on the back of Burns' head.

"Waylon..." he said, slowly closing his eyes for a moment before reopening them to stare at Smithers. "I love you, my dear Waylon." His eyelids fell.

"Mr. Burns..." he said in soft concern. Then, in desperation he cried, "Mr. Burns!" He shook the man slightly. "Talk to me, Monty... Please, just talk to me. Yell at me. Hate me. Just do something, damn it!" He dropped his head gradually to Burns' chest and wept quietly yet deeply, intensely. "Damn it..."


	4. The Naked Personal Servant

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 4

Smithers sat in the waiting room of the emergency department of Springfield General Hospital, his head in his hands, still crying. A receptionist called to him: "Sir, please stop crying."

"You don't understand! No amount of comforting can fill this void. Mr. Burns is – dead, and it's all my fa-fault!" A round of applause erupted from others in the waiting room.

"No, I mean, 'You need to stop crying.' It's against the rules."

"You can shove that rule up your ass." His anger cut through the sorrow for a moment, but just as suddenly, it faded and his heart felt as though it were being crushed in a vise. "Oh, God, why not take me instead?"

A nurse entered the waiting room and looked at the clipboard in his hand. "Waylon Smithers? The doctor is ready to see you, now."

"I don't need a damn doctor; I need a miracle."

"You really need to be evaluated; some serious car accident injuries don't manifest themselves until it's too late."

"It doesn't matter. Life doesn't even seem worth living without Mr. Burns."

"Whoa, hold on there. Mr. Burns isn't dead."

Smithers gasped and smiled. "I need to see him."

"You really need to get your injuries checked -"

"Not until I see him."

"Visitors aren't allowed yet."

"I need to see him. He's my...the only one I love."

"Okay..." he relented. "Right this way."

Smithers followed him into a large, private room. Mr. Burns sat upright in his bed, sniffing into a nosegay. "Mr. Burns!" He ran up to him and took his hand, caressing it lovingly.

"Ah, Waylon, I'm so glad to see you. You would never have given me such awful-smelling flowers!" He threw them feebly onto the floor. "Smithers, crush them under your foot."

"Yes, sir," he said, gleefully twisting his foot over the crushed flowers, still holding onto Burns' hand.

"You get such a winsome smile when you're following my orders."

"Nothing pleases me more."

Mr. Burns reached his free hand to Smithers' shoulder and ran it up along his neck, then sat up and kissed him passionately. Smithers moaned very loudly in shock and ecstasy before returning the kiss, breathing heavily as he brought his other hand to the back of Burns' neck and pressed himself as deeply into him as he could. He leaned forward, sitting half-way on the edge of the hospital bed and gently pushing Mr. Burns back against the bed. Mr. Burns released him from the kiss, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

"Okay... _that_ pleases me more." His eyes rolled back as he swooned and gasped shallowly. "So when you said you love me...you meant that?"

"Of course I do, Waylon. You make me feel like a trillionaire."

He hugged him, his joyful tears plenteous. "You've just made me the happiest man in the world."

Burns cutely poked Smithers' nose and slid his finger up the bridge, pushing his glasses up, then leaned forward and kissed him again, this time letting his free hand trail down Smithers' chest. "I've heard of your licentious escapades, my roguish assistant," he said, his fingers sliding lower than the belly button. "You impeccably serve all my needs...save one." He made a grab for Smithers' crotch. Smithers cried out, and Burns withdrew his hand as if in fear. Smithers grabbed his wrist and drew it closer to him. "Oh, don't you dare stop this now, Monty..."

Dr. Hibbert walked in at "stop this now," and said, "I see you've become acquainted with his...problem."

He pushed Burns' hand away and blinked the lust out of his eyes. "What problem?" He slid off the bed and looked back at Dr. Hibbert, immediately concerned. "He's doing very well, isn't he?" He grew self-conscious of his arousal and so sat down again, grabbed Mr. Burns' chart from the end of the bed, and covered himself with it, his face flushed equally from excitement and embarrassment.

Dr. Hibbert chuckled, "Oh, my, no. He has suffered some minor head trauma that has decreased his impulse control and is leading him to engage in...inappropriate sexual behavior."

"It's not inappropriate. Not with me..."

"Oh. I see," he said, evidently mulling over the implications. "Mr. Smithers, while you might enjoy his newfound...enthusiasm for you, I must caution that this is a serious situation. It's likely other symptoms of brain injury like mood swings, difficulty sleeping, impaired thinking, seizures, and confusion will emerge, and there's no telling whether they will get better or worse with time. You will need to watch him very carefully after he is released from the hospital for signs of deteriorating condition."

"Does that mean he's...not really attracted to me?"

"It's Mr. Burns' frontal lobe that sustained damage. Thus this is a case of disinhibition, not alteration of attraction. He has likely harbored affection for you for some time but simply never allowed himself to consider expressing it."

"Oh, thank God!" Then he crossed his arms and said with a twinge of jealousy, "Did he flirt with you, too?"

"No, but he did make a pass at some of the nurses." He chuckled.

Smithers grimaced. "Wait – what was it you said about other symptoms?"

"You'll have to watch out for them, and we don't know whether he'll get better or go downhill."

"What can we do to improve his outcome?"

"The main thing he needs is rest. Beyond that, there is nothing else we can do."

Smithers squeezed Burns' hand and looked into his eyes. "It's okay, sir. I'll be here for you, no matter what."

Mr. Burns smiled and looked to Dr. Hibbert. "I have always depended on the kindness of Smithers." Smithers' eyes watered.

"Now, as for you," said Dr. Hibbert, turning to Smithers, "I need to evaluate those injuries."

"I guess I can go now. I'll be back soon, Mr. Burns."

Dr. Hibbert conducted a physical exam and ordered some X-rays and announced to Smithers that he had a humerus fracture.

"What's so funny about my fracture?"

He chuckled. "The humerus is a bone in your -"

"Oh! Right, I thought you said my fracture was humorous, not that it was a fracture of the humerus."

"You'll need to keep that arm in a sling for the next few weeks and avoid using it as much as possible, understand?"

"But I need both of my arms to help Mr. Burns."

"If those bones heal incorrectly, you might never be able to help him as you normally would."

"Then I'll just have to figure out a way to do my job without crippling myself."

* * *

"Smithers, that's enough of that!" said Mr. Burns, consternated at Smithers' awkward attempts at tying his shoes, unused to using his arm and fingers again after three weeks of keeping them in a sling and splints. "Just get me my loafers!" He thrashed his feet about, pushing Smithers away from him.

"Yes, sir."

"It's just a damn charity banquet, anyway."

Smithers retrieved Mr. Burns' black patent leather Armani loafers, knowing that they were Burns' favorite loafers, and kneeled beside him as he slipped them onto his feet. He looked him up and down. "You look utterly dashing."

"Do you really think so? Speak frankly."

"Unquestionably." Smithers curled the fingers of his good hand with Burns' fingers and rubbed his thumb against Burns' pinky, lingering for just a second before letting go.

Mr. Burns smiled involuntarily. He knew Smithers liked to toy with his recent inability to curtail his emotional responses. He had already regained much of his ability for self-control in what Dr. Hibbert had deemed a remarkably rapid recovery, but there were things he still couldn't conceal. Things like how touching he found Smithers' concern for him and how much he craved Smithers' solicitous touch. "It's not as if I'm in love with you, you know!"

Smithers' eyes widened, unprepared for a verbal response to his teasing gesture. "That's okay, sir. Hearing it once was enough for me."

"What in the blazes are you talking about?"

"Just after the accident, you told me you loved me."

"I must've confused you for some old lover in my delirious state."

"...You called me your dear Waylon. Unless you've had a dalliance with a sultry young flapper named Waylon..."

"Get out of my sight before I release the hounds!"

Feeling bold, Smithers sat in a chair beside him, crossed his legs, and said, "So what is it about me that you love most?"

"I love it when you shut the hell up!"

"I'll tell you that I love how cute you are when you're trying to hide your sweet side with angry threats."

"Oh, fine. I love how good you are at your job. Your efficiency and competency save me a great deal of money, which I do love dearly."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you kiss me?"

"I took pity on you. Such an affliction as yours must be painful to endure."

"You're not being completely honest."

"Yes, I am; you're just reading into my words because you want there to be some ulterior motive on my part."

"Maybe. Or maybe I've seen you lie so often I can see it in your lips before you even start to speak."

"Oh, drat! I...I suppose I enjoy having such thrall over you. I've never had someone want me so deeply. If you were a woman, I would find your concupiscent pursuit of me very appealing."

"You know...it's not an affliction. This...concupiscence for men, I mean."

"Of course it is, Smithers. Men are wired to want women; something has gone wrong with the wiring in your type."

"I'm wired differently, not wrongly. And it's okay if your wiring is a little bit different too. You'll still be the same powerful, distinguished man you've been my whole life. Nothing in Heaven or Earth could diminish your unassailably masculine charm."

"I...I suppose I do feel a certain...attraction to you. Perhaps it is your everlasting commitment to cede your will to me. Perhaps I get a thrill commanding the devotion of a man many years my junior. Perhaps it is merely our perennial proximity that compels me to seek gratification from you. Whatever the reason, I've come to appreciate your affections over the years. Your companionship has lifted my spirits so many times that I yearn for it in your absence."

"I'm so happy to have brightened your life, sir." He sniffled and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I never got to tell you I love you – properly, the way I've always fantasized I would tell you."

"Fire away."

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Reaching over the armrests and stroking Burns' hand, he shifted his gaze to the floor as he began, "Sir, I have to tell you something. I've needed to tell you for a long time, but..." His eyes met those of Mr. Burns as he leaned in and took both of his hands in a gentle yet firm grip, pulling him closer. "Monty, over the years I've been your loyal assistant, one thing has become clear to me. You are the reason I get up in the morning. You are the sun in my sky, the marshmallows in my hot chocolate. I could tell you I don't know what I'd do without you, but I do know – I would be horribly depressed and drown my despair in alcohol.

"Don't take this the wrong way – I'm not just sucking up to you. I have a burning, undying love for you, as passionate as that a man ordinarily reserves for a woman. I love you more than life itself, Monty, and I can't stop loving you. Not just because I can't help but find you irresistibly attractive, but because you need someone to love you, and I'm the only one who really does. And I always will...for the rest of my life." A couple of scattered tears slid down his nose and lingered at the edge of his nostril.

Mr. Burns actually appeared to be moved by his emotive monologue, his lips parted as if he meant to say something. Smithers tightened his grip of Burns' hands, leaned in further and pressed his lips against him. He propelled himself forward, knees on his armrest, pressing himself against Burns' chest. He leaned his head against Burns' shoulder. "I want you like I want nothing else."

He stroked Smithers' shoulder with his right hand. "You are right about one thing - I need to be loved. I enjoy your everyday affection, the way you touch my shoulders and wash my hands."

"Do you like...how I'm holding your hands now?" he asked, taking both hands into his and slowly caressing them.

"Yes."

"That's all I need." They sat in the chair together, Smithers leaning over the armrests as he stared into Burns' distant eyes, consistently moving his hands across Burns'.

Burns finally returned Smithers' gaze. "You want to know what disturbs me most when you kiss me?"

"Not really, sir."

"It's so unnatural for our articulators to co-mingle; it's such a queer feeling." He took his hands out of Smithers' and placed them on his shoulders. "But worst of all...I think I...like it." He pressed his fingers into Smithers' shoulders and kissed him deeply. Caught off guard, Smithers felt a rush of adrenaline and gripped the back of his head tightly with one hand and stroked his chest with the other. Burns withdrew his lips to catch his breath. As Smithers still reeled, Burns wrapped his lips around Smithers' upper lip, then took him into his mouth again. "This thoroughly confounds my sensibilities," he said, taking in shallow breaths, "but I've never been one to disregard my carnal instincts in favor of a pharisaic devotion to moral rectitude."

"You're a man after my own heart," he said, leaning him into the chair again and licking and kissing his neck. The activity visibly exhilarated and exhausted Mr. Burns, who lay slumped in his chair as Smithers' affection rendered him limp. "Have you never wondered what it might be like...with a man? To be perfectly frank – and that's what you said I should be – I'm quite good at it. I can make you feel better than you ever have, I'm certain of it." Smithers pulled Burns by his tie, drawing his lips to his own and kissing him. All the years of fantasy had prepared him, and so after recovering from the initial shock of his lust being reciprocated, he knew exactly how he would execute each kiss, each affectionate gesture. He loosened Burns' tie and tore open Burns' shirt. "Oh, my god, Monty."

"What is it, Waylon?"

"No, I mean, Monty, you're my god." He kissed along his chest and stroked his back and ribs.

Burns tugged at Smithers' bow tie until it came loose, then fiddled with the top button of his shirt, failing to get it undone. "Smithers, unfasten your shirt buttons."

"With pleasure, sir." He tore his shirt off, popping the buttons loose, and embraced Burns, relishing the feel of their bare chests in contact with each other. He nibbled gently at Burns' ear, then whispered, "You make me so horny, I can hardly contain myself."

"Ah, yes, I can tell. What do you plan to do about it?" he asked in an unintentionally sinister voice.

Smithers blushed deeply. He had concealed his attraction to his boss for so long, he still felt profoundly awkward discussing it with the man even as they necked like a couple of seniors on prom night. "Well..." he chuckled nervously. "That depends...what do you want me to do about it?" He smiled seductively.

"Oh, blast it! You're a man; what could we possibly do?"

"Well, we could..." Smithers whispered, "...suck your...tie me up and...my ass."

Burns blushed. "The first one sounds least disconcerting. After all, it's virtually indistinguishable from what your regular job entails." Smithers stared at him with a wide-eyed look of want as his chest heaved with each breath. "Well, what the devil are you waiting for? Chop chop!"

Smithers' mouth fell open, his eyes overjoyed and watering. "Thank you, sir." He removed his boss' pants and undergarments, then dutifully went to town. Smithers pulled him closer, reaching climax from the sheer pleasure of pleasing his darling one, quicker than he would've liked. Still, he was more than content to stay and attend to Burns for as long as he needed. When Burns leaned back and gripped the armrests, he kept at it until the deed was done, his ways as a lover paralleling his ways as a lackey. He rested his head in Burns' lap and caressed his thigh. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate my job performance tonight?"

"Ten. Definitely...ten." He yawned. "Waylon," he said, "fetch me my night gown and call the people hosting the party tonight to tell them we won't be there. I am going to retire now."

"Certainly," he said, promptly getting up and placing the phone call. He brought Mr. Burns his night gown and while helping him into it said, "I can't thank you enough for tonight. This has truly been the best night of my life. I will never forget the time we shared this evening."

"Are you ever going to get tired of constantly kissing my ass?"

"No, sir," he said, helping Mr. Burns stand and walking him to his bedroom, his arm around the older man's waist. He laid him down on his bed, then stood awkwardly as he tried to decide whether to kiss him goodnight, whether he should use tongue, for how long he should make contact, etc.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, quit gawking and lie down, you fool," he said, interrupting his nervous chain of thought.

Smithers happily complied, pulling the covers over them both then spooning him. "I love you, Monty."

"As if I needed you to spell it out for me again." His eyelids drooped. "Thank you...Waylon," he said, interlocking the fingers of his right hand with Smithers', squeezing just before going limp as he drifted off to sleep.


	5. A Smithers is Not a Toy

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 5

The next day, after escorting Mr. Burns to his office, Waylon Smithers strutted through the plant on his way to his own office, a self-satisfied smirk painted on his face and his eyes alight with bliss. As he poured hot water into his mug and tore open a tea bag in the break room, he sang absentmindedly, "Oh what a beautiful mornin', oh what a beautiful day... I've got a beautiful feelin' everything's going my way... Oh, the sounds of the earth are like music...oh, the sounds of the earth are like music..."

Carl turned to Lenny. "Looks like Mr. Smithers got lucky last night."

Smithers blushed. "Is it that obvious?" He dipped his bag of tea in and out of the water. Sitting down with his hand cradling his cheek and setting his mug onto the table, he stared into the water as he swirled the tea bag around in it and said, "It was better than I ever dreamt it would be."

"Whoa, whoa, we don't need to hear it in lurid detail."

"I won't subject you to an explicit account, but suffice it to say, he rocked my world."

"So...who was it?" asked Lenny.

"It was that young guy you brought to the ball, isn't it?" said Carl.

"Ooh, yeah, he was dreamy."

"Huh? Oh, yes, uh – Kevin. Yeah, it was him."

Lenny said, "You're really smitten with him, aren't you?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Homer walked in, and Smithers grabbed a big pink box from the counter and handed it to him. "Half of them are jelly-filled, and the other half are chocolate-filled. They're all yours, so go nuts," he said, giving a friendly slap on his shoulder. "Have a great day, guys!" he said, taking his tea with him and leaving for his office, a skip in his step, at least until he spilled some of the scalding hot water on his hand. But he didn't care about the burn as long as he had Burns.

He wasn't in his office long before Mr. Burns called him in. He entered the stately office and quickened his pace, eager to get closer to his love. "Smithers, have these financial reports on my desk in an hour," he said, handing him a stack of papers and looking away.

"Whatever you say, sir."

"And don't get any ideas about tonight. Last night was a horrible mistake, and you are never to speak of it again!"

He lost his balance and nearly fell over. "I knew I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. I'm such an idiot!" He smacked his face. "How could I have let myself believe for a second I would find happiness?" He sighed. "I'll always have that glorious memory, though."

"April fools! And quite the fool you were. You should have seen the expression on your face!"

"But sir, it's...May."

"Don't be a spoilsport, Waylon!" He spun around in his chair. "But still...I don't want you to get the wrong idea about us. We are not now, nor shall we be, lovers. I have simply...expanded your repertoire of duties to me."

"And I'm happy to do it, sir." He went back to his office and prepared the reports and returned in 55 minutes. "I have the financial reports ready, sir. I've also arranged our accommodations for the upcoming conference in Paris."

He handed some papers to Mr. Burns, who reviewed them and said, "Good, good – ah, yes, excellent! Oh, wait, what's this? Smithers, what is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning of what, sir?"

"You booked us two rooms. Why would you waste my precious money this way?"

"Sorry, sir, I thought you might -"

"I don't care what you thought; just fix it."

"Absolutely, sir. I also have your coffee. It's still too hot, so let it cool a bit first."

"Set them on my desk," he said, and Smithers complied, still smiling as gleefully as he had when he first walked in that morning. "You're in an exceptionally chipper mood today, Waylon. Care to divulge the reason why?"

"With all due respect, sir...you already know why."

Burns leaned back in his chair relaxedly. "Remind me."

He sidled up to his desk and sat on it, crossing his leg and leaning in toward Mr. Burns. "Because last night you gave me the best orgasm of my life."

"Pish tosh! I gave you nothing. _You_ serviced _me_. And why did you do that, hm?"

Seeing what answer Burns was fishing for, he said, "You are the sexiest man to have ever graced my presence. I struggle every moment we're together to resist your magnetic charm, your fetching smile, your devious scowl, all enticing me to take you in my arms and make you cry out in ecstasy for me."

"Indeed," he said, tenderly tracing his fingertips across Smithers' cheek, making him moan and shudder. He suddenly slapped him. "Get your mind out of the gutter and get back to work! I don't pay you to fawn over me!"

"Actually, sir, you kind of do."

Mr. Burns smiled at his matter-of-fact response. "Why, yes, I suppose you're right. There is a reason I've kept you by my side for all these years, Waylon..." he said, drawing close enough to speak into his ear. He grabbed hold of Smithers' left buttock and squeezed. The look of shock and delirious elation that donned his face titillated Mr. Burns. Smithers really was under his power, far more than he had ever realized. "Get on your knees." Smithers instantly dropped to the floor, clearly anticipating a repeat performance of the previous night. "And wipe that rapacious look off your face. I just need you to hold my coffee until it's cool enough to drink." He sat in his chair and handed him his cup of coffee.

"Oh, of course. Any particular reason you wouldn't rather...keep it on your desk?" he said, taking the burning hot mug into his hand.

"No, I think it's much more entertaining this way. Don't you agree?"

"Absolutely, sir." He looked adoringly into Burns' eyes, periodically dipping his upper lip into the coffee to test the temperature until it felt just how his boss liked it. "I believe the coffee is ready, sir."

Mr. Burns took it into his hand and sipped eagerly, then leaned back and slowly, contentedly exhaled. "Perfect, as usual," he said.

Smithers beamed at the compliment. Mr. Burns' praise was a rare and precious commodity he had lately been accruing in large quantities. "Thank you, sir. I do my best."

Mr. Burns set down the coffee, took Smithers' hand, and pulled it toward his own chest, drawing Smithers closer to him. He locked lips with Smithers. "I'll never forgive you for kissing me and showing me how much fun it can be."

Smithers brought his left arm around Burns' waist, his right hand still gripping Burns' left. "And I'll never forgive you for enchanting me with your time-honored charisma and vintage good looks." He dipped him slightly as though they were dancing, his lips drawing dangerously near to Burns' before withdrawing and returning him upright and bringing his hands back to his sides.

Burns pulled him by his bow tie and kissed him again. "I don't understand how I can feel this way about you," he said, still gripping the bow tie as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling off a cliff, holding his face near.

"There's nothing to understand. All that matters is what you feel."

"Your kiss feels...excellent. But it's not as though I'm in love with you." He gradually unhooked his fingers from Smithers' bow tie. "How preposterous a notion _that_ would be! I wouldn't know the first thing about falling in love with a man. I am fond of you, though. I'm especially fond of your dedicated service to me." He sighed. "Oh, Smithers. Why do you bother doting on an old man like me?"

"That should be abundantly obvious by now."

"Why aren't you instead out cavorting with virile young men of your persuasion? You could have your pick of the pack, yet you stay by my side."

"That's very flattering, sir, but – I have, and you are my pick. There is no one I'd rather have than you." Mr. Burns' cheeks turned rouge. "The real mystery is why you like me."

"I never said anything about liking you!" He stood up and slammed the palms of his hands against his desktop.

"Actually, yesterday -"

"I know what I said!" He turned away to face the window, his hands behind his back. "Forgive me, Waylon, this is just – I don't know what – I can't say – it's too damn strange!" he concluded, turning back to face Smithers, his mouth twisted into a snarl.

Smithers was taken aback. Mr. Burns only fumbled his words like that when extremely agitated, and he couldn't fathom why he would ask for forgiveness. "Monty...I understand this must be difficult for you. If you want me to give you some space, I'll...give you as much as you need."

As he turned to leave, Mr. Burns grabbed his hand. "No," he said, almost frantic. Then, more subdued, he said, "No..."

Smithers clasped his other hand around Burns'. "Is there anything I can do to help you sort through this?" He looked pleadingly into his eyes.

"Suspend your lascivious overtures for a fortnight. Then I will have a clearer picture of what I want you to be to me."

"No problem, sir."

"Excellent. Did you pick up my dry-cleaning yet?"

"Oh! Not yet. Sorry, sir, I completely forgot with all the...excitement. I'll get it on my next break."

"Take your time. It's not a pressing matter, just the outfit I'm thinking about wearing to the gala. Have you picked out clothes yet?"

"I was planning to wear my tuxedo."

"The same one you wore to last month's gala? Nonsense. We'll go shopping this afternoon and find you a spectacular new outfit. Maybe I'll get a little something for myself."

"Well, if you insist."

That afternoon, Smithers drove them to Costington's, and Mr. Burns selected a dozen outfits for himself, which he had Smithers carry to the dressing room for him. Once inside the dressing room, Smithers asked, "Which of these would you like to try first, sir? The charcoal suit, the maroon one..."

"The chestnut suit." Smithers handed him a suit. "No, I said, 'chestnut'. This is umber!"

"Sorry, sir. This one?" He lifted another suit.

"That's burnt sienna, you dunderhead! Oh, for – this one!" he said, frustratedly snatching one of the suits from Smithers' arms.

"Oh, of course. How foolish of me." He snickered at Burns' sartorial finicality as he hung the selected suit on the hook and helped him undress. It was beyond him why it would be important to try a particular shade first or for that matter to pay so much attention to slight variations of hue in the first place, but he had to admit that the man was a snappy dresser.

As Smithers helped pull his pants off, Mr. Burns said, "Have you been ogling me all these years while helping me bathe and dress?"

Smithers froze, his face flushing, the waist of the pants still hanging over Burns' knees. "I wouldn't say ogling so much as admiring. I've done my best to avoid staring overtly." In the vein of finding oneself thinking of pink elephants at the command not to, his gaze drifted south.

He gave a knowing smile. "I thought so." Smithers' lower lip hung down a bit, feeling as naked as Burns. "Don't make a mountain of this, you melodramatic fool," he said, anticipating the volley of self-recriminations that Smithers would fire at himself momentarily. "Were I in your position, why, I'd have done much more than sneak peeks. If anything, I admire your restraint."

That floored Smithers. "Admire?"

"Oh boy, here we go again. Shut up and take my pants off already!"

That was a request he was most happy to oblige.

He tried on multiple suits, narrowing his choices down to the chestnut suit with a taupe pork pie hat, a charcoal suit with high lapels and a smoky homburg hat, a maroon tuxedo with satin lapels and a maroon trilby, and a white and red pinstripe suit with a red vest and white panama hat. Mr. Burns admired himself in the mirror wearing the maroon suit. "I'm partial to this one, but the chestnut suit is ace. What do you think, Waylon?"

"Those are great choices, Monty, but I think you look particularly debonair in the pinstripe suit and the white panama hat."

"Really? I'll wear that one, then. And the hat is not white, it's ivory!"

"Right."

"Now before I buy these clothes, we need to find you some." They left the dressing room to pick out some suits for Smithers to try. Every time Smithers reached for something, Mr. Burns would tut at him and pick something else. When they returned to the dressing room, as Smithers closed the door behind him, Mr. Burns held it open and walked inside.

"Um, sir, I need to try these on."

"Go ahead." He sat on the seat in the dressing room.

"With you here?"

"You've seen me nude countless times before. There's no need to be bashful about me seeing you in your boxers."

"I guess you're right. It would be silly of me to be self-conscious around you." He slid off his jacket and undid his bow tie. He unfastened his shirt buttons, feeling only a twinge of awkwardness when he removed his shirt entirely. Once his pants fell to his ankles, though, his perspective shifted dramatically. It was only then it dawned on him that despite Mr. Burns' overwhelmingly dominant role in their relationship, when dressing or bathing, it was always he who had the upper hand, always clothed and never nude. Being nearly naked in front of his fully-clothed boss made him feel powerless in a way he never felt when being ordered around in the course of his job.

He tried on an amaranthine suit with a green vest. "Splendid! That _suit_ really _suits_ you," he said, emphasizing the pun.

"Heh heh. Good one, sir." He tried on a few more suits to similar responses. Then he tried on a midnight blue tuxedo with a matching bow tie.

"Oh, my, you're...stunning, Waylon. Just stunning."

"I'm getting this one."

"Excellent choice."

The next day at work, while Smithers was in his office making arrangements for the upcoming nuclear energy conference in Paris, he heard a strange sound coming from the air ducts, some bangs followed by hissing. Raising an eyebrow inquisitively, he stood and stared at the duct as though if he listened hard enough and stared intently enough, he would be able to see the source of the sounds.

He heard a loud sound of metal bursting and air rushing at high pressure. A potato sat at his feet as steam flooded his office.

"Uh-oh," said a familiar voice from the floor above.

"Simpson! What the hell did you do this time?" he said through gritted teeth, frantically diving out of the path of the steam and gathering stacks of important papers to take out of the office.

"Well, you see, sir, this bird had my donut, and -"

"I don't give a damn about your donut!" He dragged a filing cabinet out into the hallway.

Homer gasped as if Smithers had just blasphemed against all that is good and holey. "So, anyway, I shot at it with this potato launcher and the potato went through a steam pipe."

"What was a bird doing in the – why do you have a - oh, never mind, just call maintenance!"

"Okie dokie."

Smithers finished retrieving the papers, coming out of it with only second-degree burns and frazzled nerves. The maintenance team arrived. "That idiot Simpson broke the steam pipe running through my office. How long do you think it'll take to fix?"

"Ooh...that is real bad," said the lead maintenance person. "It'll be weeks."

"Aw, shit." He began running to Mr. Burns' office, then stopped and looked back. "Watch this stuff for me, okay?" Then he took off again. He burst through the doors of Mr. Burns' office. "Mr. Burns – sir, one of your idiot organ sacks from sector 7-G destroyed my office."

"What? I'll have his hide!" He slammed his fist on the desk. "Oh, well. I suppose you'll have to share my office for the...how long will it take to get fixed?"

"Oh, they said it could take...months."

"Very well. Move your things in here and pull up a chair."

"Yes, sir."

As he turned to leave, Mr. Burns said, "Smithers, what was the name of this dastardly fellow who wantonly wrought destruction on your office? On my precious property! I want to know who he is, where he lives – and fire him, and then raze his house to rubble."

 _Homer may be a stupid asshole, but his family doesn't deserve that. And I get to work closer to Monty, so once again his crassitude brings us closer together._ "No need, sir. I've already taken my own measures to destroy him."

"I'd prefer to exact my vengeance on him myself. There is nothing quite like a blistering, searing firing. Besides, you'd just go soft on him the moment he pleas for mercy on his family!"

 _Damn. You know me too well, sir._ "Don't worry about that. He has no family to show mercy to, and I wouldn't show him mercy since I hate him and I don't find him remotely attractive."

"You'd better not."

"What was that, sir?"

"Show him mercy, you'd better not show him mercy! It bewilders me how after all these years with me you are still so namby-pamby about doling out revenge. What was the fellow's name, Smithers? I need it to finalize his pink slip."

"Oh, uh...Gorky MacSwankersonton."

"A new hire, I'm assuming? New hires make great fires."

Smithers chuckled. "They sure do." He ran back to his office and happily dragged file cabinets to Mr. Burns' office, then pulled up a green chair beside him and sat down. When Mr. Burns turned his head to face Smithers, scowling as usual, Smithers grinned sheepishly.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, indignant. Smithers began to sweat and stammer, trying to formulate a response that would appease him, when Mr. Burns continued, "You'll need a better chair than that." Smithers exhaled long and slow. "That chair looks terrible next to mine. It's a chair for lowly peons. You need a chair that says, 'lead henchman'."

"Good thinking, sir," he said and carried the chair out. When he returned, he said, "So what kind of chair do you suggest?"

"Follow me," he said, standing and walking out of the office. Smithers followed him as they walked down the corridor. They stopped at a door labelled "Office Furniture Storage" and Mr. Burns turned the knob and opened it. He flipped on the light switch, revealing a number of desks, chairs, file cabinets, and the like. "I know just the one for you," he said, walking with purpose. He stopped at a maroon leather office chair much like his own, but not quite as tall. He turned to Smithers and said, "How do you like your new chair, Mr. Executive Vice President?"


	6. His Life

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 6

Smithers' lower lip dropped as the corners of his mouth widened into a smile. "S-sir, I don't know what to say...you're really promoting me? After all these years...? After you were going to fire me...?"

"Yes, well, you were qualified for the job years ago, but I feared that it might give you a taste for being in authority, and you would quit your lackeying, opting instead to hobnob with the nouveau riche, leaving me to putter around my mansion and attend parties with a servant I hardly know until I wither and die."

Smithers' face went gloomy. "Oh, Mr. Burns, I could never do that to you."

"I know that, now. But I couldn't let you leave, too." He shifted his demeanor from somber to enthusiastic. "Well, go ahead, try it out!" Smithers sat down, rocking his hips until he settled into optimal comfort. Mr. Burns leaned forward, eager to hear his thoughts. "So...what do you think?"

"It's..." Smithers looked up at him with a self-confident grin and besotted eyes and said, "...excellent," tenting his fingers.

Mr. Burns smirked, flattered at the impression. Playfully he said, "Don't you forget that I'm still your boss," and leaned in near his face, pointing an accusing finger at him.

Smithers moved the chair into their office and removed the old green one. Once he returned, he sat in his chair and sighed, his eyes closed. Mr. Burns silently swiveled around in his own chair and leaned over, kissing Smithers' eyebrow, his lips first brushing against the rim of his glasses.

"Mr. Burns, I thought you said..." He trailed off, realizing that the last thing he wanted was to persuade him to stop.

"I ordered _you_ to not make a move on _me_. I am free to move you however I please." _What would his father think of me if he knew what I was doing with his son two nights ago?_ He recoiled in shame, swiftly turning his chair to face the window, neglecting to even glance over to see Smithers' pleasantly surprised expression. _I've held this man when he was an infant, and two nights ago he held me like a wife holds her husband. Waylon Sr. entrusted him to me when he laid his life down for us, and I entrusted him to my maids until his mother finished recuperating at the hospital from some illness. Learning of my illicit affair with his son might be the one thing that could've untethered his loyalty to me._

"Sir?" Smithers said. After a long pause, he said again, "Sir...? Sir, did you hear me?"

Mr. Burns shook his head as if to shake off his disquieted thoughts and turned his chair to face him again. "Well, what is it?"

Smithers smiled, still thinking of Burns' affectionate gesture. "I thought you'd want me to bring to your attention that there is a rabble-rouser in sector 7-G."

"What? How dare he? Who is it that's rousing the rabble this time?"

"Homer Simpson, sir."

"Who the devil is he?"

"He's a safety inspector. He used to be head of the union until you convinced him to step down from his office."

"I see. I should meet with this Simpson fellow."

"When would you like me to schedule this meeting?"

"Immediately." He tented his fingers.

Smithers pressed the button on the intercom and said, "Homer Simpson. Report to C. Montgomery Burns at once."

When Homer slinked into their office, Mr. Burns said, "Have a seat."

"But there's no chair here."

"I said, 'Have a seat.'"

Homer sat down on the floor.

"I hear you are something of a malcontent."

"If that's a good thing, I am so it."

"It's not a good thing. What about my cherished plant do you find fault with?"

"Well, you see, sir, I just thought this place could use some sprucing up."

"I see. So that's why you called it a dump not fit to store garbage, did you?"

Homer sheepishly said, "Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a little, but have you seen this place? There's leaks everywhere, banana peels on the break room floor, and even a burst steam pipe that turned Mr. Smithers' office into a sauna."

"You're the one who did that, you fat idiot!" said Smithers, forgetting himself in his rage. "Oops."

Mr. Burns squinted one eye, turning the other gaping eye to Smithers. "You said it was the fault of that Gorky MacSwankers-etcetera."

"Yes, sir, I...lied. I'm sorry, but I was just so happy to share your office, I couldn't let you destroy the man indirectly responsible for us being closer."

"Perhaps I was too hasty with that 'turn his house to rubble' business. And I can't fire you for sharing your objections about the workplace with your co-workers."

"Woo-hoo!"

"But I can damn well fire you for destroying Mr. Smithers' office. You're fired! Waylon, get me a pink slip."

Homer screamed. Smithers retrieved a pink slip and handed it to Mr. Burns to sign. Just as he was about to sign it, Homer got a devious grin. "Before you sign that, there's some information I have about a certain Waylon Smithers that I think you'd find _very_ interesting."

"Well, spit it out, man!"

"He's in love with you."

"Quit wasting my time telling me things I already know."

"No, you see, I don't just mean that he loves you. I mean, he's gay for you."

"Of course he's happy around me. Anyone with half a brain cell considers me pleasant company."

"No, I mean he wants to have sex with you."

"Oh, that. Yes, I am aware."

Homer's jaw dropped. "You wha-?"

"He's promised to refrain from making advances toward me. I take him at his word because his decades of service to me have given me every reason to trust him. Do not tell anyone else what you know about Waylon or otherwise attempt to tarnish his and by proxy my reputation, or I _will_ destroy you absolutely. Trust me, Simpson – firing you is a mere slap on the wrist compared to the wrath I could unleash on your entire family." He signed the pink slip. "Now, get out of my sight." Despondent, Homer trudged toward the door. Mr. Burns' finger hovered beneath a button under his desk as he neared the trap door. When he set foot on it, he pressed the button and sent him falling. Mr. Burns chuckled. "Well, that was a lark. Still, I worry that his discontent may yet take root amongst the slightly less dispensable employees."

"Don't you worry about that, sir. I'll handle the situation."

"Thank you, Smithers, but nothing you say can dispel my unremitting dread that this kerfluffle will only end in my paying exorbitant fees to fix this place up."

"Sir, I can't stand to see you so tense," he said, reaching and placing his left hand upon Burns' right shoulder. He began to massage him deeply at just the spot he carried the most tension. Mr. Burns smiled and tilted his head back in relief, but after a moment, he tensed his muscles far more rigidly than before. "Wow, you really are stressed about this. But like I said, I'll handle it. Have I let you down before?"

"Smithers, stop. This is all wrong."

He withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry, sir. Did I do it too hard, or not hard enough? Did I hit the wrong spot? It's my awkward coordination, isn't it? Damn my righthandedness!"

"Shut up, you ninny, this has nothing to do with your damn hand!"

"Then what, sir?"

"You take after your father," he said, "in demeanor as well as appearance. Waylon, he would despise me if he knew I engaged you sexually."

"He would probably despise me if he knew I had sex with any man at all."

He snarled. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about. You never knew the man; I did. And I know he loved you more than I've seen anyone love anyone. He would be happy just to see you enjoy your life."

"Then he would be happy to see us together."

"Happy for you, yes. But he would wither at the knowledge that a man decades older than himself, particularly one he had grown to call friend, sees his son in a carnal light, and he would resent me for reciprocating."

"Probably. But it's very common for parents to disapprove of their children's choice in partners. It doesn't mean they hate them." After a short silence, he said, "Do you really think he would be okay with my sexual preference? Because a lot of people say they love their children more than anything, then disown them the moment they bring too much shame on them."

"I know he would accept you. He was an open-minded fellow, one who believed in live-and-let-live. He didn't give a damn about what other people got up to in their bedrooms, and if he'd extend that courtesy to strangers, then surely he would extend it to you. And I don't base my assertion that he loved you unconditionally on his words. It's clear by the way he died...your father loved you more than he loved life itself."

Smithers sniffled back some tears. "I wish I could've known him."

"I know, Waylon. I know," he said, extending his arms and welcoming him into an embrace. Smithers buried his head between Burns' head and shoulder, crying quietly. Mr. Burns stroked the back of his head. "He would be proud of the man you've become." He patted Smithers' back a few times, and they parted. "Are you going to be okay today?"

Hearing those words from him stunned Smithers. He was never so overt about his affection. He wiped some tears onto his sleeve and said, "Yes, I'll be fine. Thanks for asking."

After work that day, Smithers drove to Moe's. As he entered the bar, Homer scowled at him. "You! What the hell are you doing in here?"

"Yeah," said Moe. "How dare you deprive him of a salary to spend on enormous amounts of booze?"

Smithers sighed. "Look, I tried my best to cover up for you. That's why I told him it was a made-up man named Gorky MacSwankersonton who wrecked my office in the first place. If you hadn't complained about the damage you did – or better yet, never did that damage in the first place – you'd still have your job!"

"No...if you hadn't squealed on me, I'd still have my job." He made a squealing noise and a clawing motion, and his fellow barflies followed suit.

"Even though it was your own damn fault, I still feel terrible for your family, so I want to help you get back on your feet."

"Oh, no! I'm not standing up until I need to take a whiz."

"No, I mean I'm going to help you get a new job." He thumbed through some cards in his wallet, then pulled one out and gave it to Homer. "Here. This is the contact information for Reginald Barnes. He's a wealthy man who I happen to know is looking for a new chauffeur. I'll give you a good reference, but for God's sake, during the interview, be polite and speak as little as necessary."

"Uh...thanks?"

"No. Thank you," he said, his thoughts drifting to Mr. Burns. "Your buffoonery always seems to bring me closer to Mr. Burns."


	7. The Smithers Around the Corner

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 7

That Friday, as the workday closed to an end, Mr. Burns casually packed a briefcase with hundred-dollar bills as he struck up a conversation with Smithers. "So are you familiar with this eatery _Madame Chao's_? They serve cuisine of the Far East there."

"Well, it was voted the sexiest Chinese restaurant in Capital City three years in a -"

"I meant the food; is it any good?"

"I've never been, but reviews say it's excellent."

"I certainly hope so."

"May I ask why you wanted to know, sir?"

"Because I've had a change of plans, and I made us reservations there tonight." Smithers grinned giddily, his cheeks encroaching on his eyes. Mr. Burns shoved a navy blue suit at him. "Get dressed. And make haste! You don't want to keep me waiting."

"Yes, sir!" he said, taking the suit into his hands and hurrying to the executive washroom to change. After he'd changed, he took a few minutes to look himself over in the mirror, practicing facial expressions and poses that were adoring and inviting but not overtly libidinous. He closed his eyes and stroked the back of his left hand with his right, pretending it was Burns' hand. "Oh, Waylon, you make me feel like a trillion bucks," he said, imitating his voice as he hugged himself and let out a lovesick sigh. Restoring his voice to normal, he said, "Oh, Monty, you make me feel better than all the money in the world." He rubbed cologne on his wrists and straightened his bow tie once again before turning to leave.

"Now _that's_ a risible sentiment," said Mr. Burns, standing at the door holding a suit as Smithers saw him standing at the bottom of the staircase.

"Oh, you, uh – heard me, sir?"

"I don't pay you to indulge your cockeyed fantasies in the lavatory."

He began to descend the stairs as Mr. Burns began his ascent. "I'm sorry, sir, I -"

"Yeesh. Can't you be unapologetic for once in your life?"

"I've been unapologetic before."

"Name one time, you spineless lackey." They stood face to face.

Smithers frowned, then grabbed his tie and drew him close and kissed him. "Don't hold your breath for an apology from me this time, Monty."

"Why Smithers, I had no idea you had this capacity to be so delightfully selfish." He clasped his hands around Smithers' elbows, holding them there for a couple seconds before gently pushing him away. "Come with me," he said, walking up toward the bathroom. Once there, he put his arm around Smithers' shoulders and guided him inside before shutting the door behind them. Mr. Burns draped his new suit over Smithers' shoulder then removed his jacket and handed it to Smithers, who folded it and placed it on a nearby table. After about ten seconds of them awkwardly standing there, Mr. Burns said, "Are you going to help me with these buttons or just stand there like a lump?"

"Oh! Right away, sir." He swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, untied his tie, and undid his belt and pants button. As each article of clothing fell to the floor, he gathered them up, folded them, and placed them on top of Burns' jacket. He slipped the new white shirt around his arms and buttoned it down, then pulled the charcoal pants over his ankles and slid them up to his waist.

As he did up the button fly, Mr. Burns said coyly, "What are you thinking about, Waylon?" Smithers stopped, his hands hovering near Mr. Burns' crotch as he fumbled for an answer. "It's so easy to make you squirm. How you managed to conceal your ardor for me all these years is nothing short of a miracle."

"If you must know, sir, in order to douse the flame of my passion, I picture Rosie O'Donnell making out with Homer Simpson."

Mr. Burns chuckled. "How droll. Now resume fastening my buttons." Smithers complied, finishing his pants and tying his tie around his neck, his hand brushing against Burns' neck. "So how does that gal Rosie kiss?" Smithers shuddered in revulsion and put his vest on. Mr. Burns smiled at his reaction as he did the buttons and got him into his jacket.

When they went back to their office, Mr. Burns retrieved the suitcase he'd packed, while Smithers rummaged through a file cabinet until he found a little box wrapped in silk and tied with a thin white lace and stuffed it into his pocket as they went to Burns' limo.

On the way there, they chatted light-heartedly about the people they'd seen at the last party they'd attended. When they finally pulled into the restaurant, Smithers got out and opened the door for Mr. Burns. He placed his hands on Mr. Burns' shoulders, guiding him to the entrance and looking at him amorously. When they reached the entrance, Mr. Burns said, "I am C. Montgomery Burns. I have reserved a table for us this evening."

"Ah, yes, Burns. Right this way, gentlemen." He led them to a small round table centered in a candlelit private room, a bottle of champagne in the center and two glasses already filled.

As they were seated, Smithers wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, Monty, I never knew you were such a romantic."

"Yes, well, I'm not all hostile takeovers and ruthless vengeance." He tilted his glass toward Smithers'. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Their glasses clinked and they each took a long, relaxed sip. His elbow on the table, Smithers rested his head in his hand and stared into Mr. Burns' eyes. With his other hand, he reached and curled his fingers around Burns' and slowly stroked him. "Well, you've swept me off my feet."

"Smithers..."

"Please. Call me Waylon. After our spectacular night together, it would be ludicrous to pretend we're just business associates."

"Shut your clapper, Smithers," he said, his voice quietly urgent.

"You're right; I'll keep quiet - I don't want to ruin the ambiance with my rhapsodizing. But first I must say you look absolutely arresting."

Mr. Burns stomped on his toes and jerked his hand out of Smithers'. "That's quite enough fawning for one dinner. Sorry about that, Dale. Sometimes my lackey doesn't know when to quit." Smithers' eyes widened and his cheeks, conflicted as to whether to turn red from embarrassment or white from terror, turned a pale pink. He had been so captivated by Burns that he had failed to notice that a waiter had led a man into the room. He was about Smithers' age and wore a brown suit. "Smithers, this is Dale Robbins, the mayor of Capital City. Mayor Robbins, Smithers – my principal lackey." The waiter returned with a chair and seated Mayor Robbins in it.

"Your lackey seems unusually devoted to you," Mayor Robbins said.

"Ah, yes, well, he likes to think he's more my friend than just an employee, and I suppose taking him with me to that motion picture the other night cemented that harebrained idea in his head."

Smithers failed miserably at hiding his dejection, unable to even look at Dale as he shook his hand, for had he looked, he would have cried. He leaned in near Mr. Burns' ear and whispered, "How could you do this to me?"

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"Excuse me," said Smithers to Mayor Robbins. "We need to discuss an important matter about the plant. Outside. Now."

Mr. Burns glared, furious at him for taking an authoritative tone in public. "All right, then." They left the room and the restaurant.

Fists clenched and arms straightened back, Smithers said through gritted teeth, "You led me on! This isn't a romantic dinner at all."

"You thought this was a – oh ho, Smithers, you are ever the eternal optimist."

"You knew damn well what you were doing!"

"I certainly did not! Why in blazes did you think I was packing a briefcase of money?"

"You always pack a briefcase of money on Fridays."

"Yes, but never that early in the day."

"But the private room, the sexy lighting, the two glasses of champagne -"

"The private room is to ensure lady law won't stick her impudent nose into my business dealings, likewise for the lighting."

"And the two glasses of champagne?" he said, unconvinced.

"Mayor Robbins is a teetotaler."

Smithers' face fell, his assertive resolve melting away. "Oh, I'm such a fool! Please, forgive me, sir!" He got on his knees and held onto Burns' wrists.

Mr. Burns recoiled, the scene so familiar that he felt as exposed as though Smithers were orally servicing him in public. As he backed away, Smithers fell forward and his face landed in a muddy puddle. "Smithers...you pitiable thing." He bent over and petted the top of Smithers' head as though he were a dog. "Now, this is a very important meeting, and I can't have you screwing it up, so go wash up and rejoin us once you're presentable." He held out his hand and helped Smithers right himself.

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Burns returned to his table. "Sorry about that, Mr. Robbins. My assistant so sedulously attends to my finances that he felt an urgent need to alert me to one of my stockholdings dipping half a point."

"I understand. Some of my advisors pester me endlessly with every single poll result, from Gallup to Gadfly."

"Oh, don't get me started on pesky advisors!"

The waiter entered the room. "Do you gentlemen know what you'd like?"

Mayor Robbins said, "I'll have the Peking duck with pork dumplings and black tea."

"Very well," said the waiter. "And for you, sir?"

"I'll have the ginger lamb with squid ink pasta, and my underling Smithers will have the chicken satay, duck salad with sesame dressing, and the lychee martini."

"Excellent choices, sir," he said, leaving the room.

Mayor Robbins said, "Isn't that a little presumptuous, ordering another drink for your employee? And what if he hates the food you ordered?"

"I know what he likes. Besides, he will eat whatever I damn well tell him to eat."

"Where is Mr. Smithers, anyway?"

"He had a mishap and went to the men's room to clean himself up."

"I see. You know, Mr. Burns, when we arranged this meeting, I didn't realize you were bringing a guest. It makes me apprehensive about discussing our new...arrangement."

"Oh, but he's no mere dinner guest. He is my thrall; he would do anything for me."

"Even go to prison?"

"He's done it thrice already. He's only spent a year incarcerated in total, because I would bribe judges to let him out early."

"Now that is dedication," he said. "How much did you have to fork over to him to get him to agree to spend so much time behind bars?"

"Just his normal salary."

"You didn't have to pay him off?" Mayor Robbins let out a long whistle of astonishment. "Man, there is something wrong with that man's head."

"Not wrong," he said slowly, tentatively. "Just...different." Smithers walked toward his chair, his lapels wet and his glasses slightly smudged. As he took a seat, Mr. Burns said, "Ah, Smithers, so kind of you to finally join us. They already took our orders. What took you so long?"

"Sorry, sir, but it was a bitch getting the mud out from between the frame and lenses of my glasses."

"Well, you're here now."

"What am I having?"

"Chicken satay, duck salad, and a lychee martini."

"What kind of dressing on the salad?"

"Sesame."

"Perfect. I could really use that drink, too." He rested his elbow on the table, dropped his forehead into the palm of his hand, and ran his other hand through his hair.

"I thought you might."

"So, Mr. Smithers," said Mayor Robbins, "how do you like your job?"

"I love it. Serving such an illustrious man as Mr. Burns is an honor and gives my life purpose."

"And how long have you worked for Mr. Burns?"

"Twenty years. I started as a lowly intern, and he appreciated my work enough that he hired me on full-time."

"Twenty years. That's a long time. You've never considered taking a job elsewhere? Maybe one where you would have more opportunities for advancement?"

"Are you trying to steal me away from him? Because the answer is no."

"No, not at all. I just want to understand your motives before I trust you."

Mr. Burns said, "Dale, I assure you, he is the most trustworthy man I know. If you can trust me, you sure as hell can trust him."

"I suppose so." The waiter brought in their food and drinks. At first, they ate in relative silence, Smithers topping off Mr. Burns' glass of champagne and cutting up his lamb into bite size pieces. Mayor Robbins broke their silence. "So the deal will go on as we agreed?"

"Yes," said Mr. Burns. "I have your recompense." He tapped the briefcase. "You'll find it's all there."

He took the briefcase under the table, then opened it to peek inside. "Good, good. Now no one has to know about your dumping operation."

"Excellent." He took another bite of his squid ink noodles. "So how's being mayor working out for you?"

"Also excellent, as you can clearly see," he said, tapping the briefcase and chuckling.

Smithers drank his martini, still sorely disappointed that the romantic evening he'd envisioned hadn't come to fruition. "Thank you, sir, I really needed that," he said, refilling his champagne glass and downing it in short order.

"I could tell." As Smithers half-heartedly ate his duck salad, a string quartet entered the room and began playing Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. "They must have the wrong room," he said, softly and nervously laughing. "Nevertheless, I always enjoy some fine musicianship."

Smithers grew increasingly despondent at the reminder of what that night could have been. As Mr. Burns engaged in a lively discussion griping about insubordinate employees, Smithers tuned out, their words becoming background noise as he wished he could avoid being so agonizingly close to his beloved. He shut his eyes as if doing so would shut down his emotions, and as he did so, he felt Mr. Burns' right hand on top of his left. He sharply inhaled, his heart racing and his face flushing.

"...and do you know what she said next? She said – Mr. Smithers, everything okay?" said Mayor Robbins.

They looked at him, Robbins with concern and Burns with a sly smile. He caressed Smithers' hand for a few more seconds, then intertwined their fingers. Smithers gazed, transfixed into Burns' eyes. "Yes," he said, his breathing slightly labored. "I'm fine. Just...fine." Mr. Burns resumed conversing animatedly with Mayor Robbins, still squeezing and stroking Smithers' hand. He ate more, a pleased grin replacing his lugubrious frown.

As they finished their meals, the waiter came in and gave them fortune cookies. They cracked them open, Smithers opening Mr. Burns' cookie in addition to his own. When Smithers read his fortune, he turned beet red. Upon reading his own fortune, Mr. Burns scrunched his face as though he'd just taken a bite of a sour lemon.

"Well, gentlemen, what do the cookies predict lies in your futures?"

At the request to hear it, Smithers rapidly tore his in two and dropped it in his half-full glass of champagne. "Oh, it was just some stupid platitude. I mean, mine didn't have a fortune."

"Let me see that," he said, fishing the pieces out from the glass. He held together the two soggy pieces and read it aloud: " _'You will get lucky tonight.'_ " Mr. Burns donned a horrified expression. "Why did you try to hide that? Some kind of prude or something? Heh heh. What about yours, Mr. Burns?"

"Eugh. It says..." he frowned and gulped. "It says, _'You will get lucky tonight.'_ "

"Oh, these things are ridiculous," said Smithers dismissively. "They don't mean anything anyway. I mean, there's no way he's going to get laid tonight, not that he isn't sexy enough to seduce a woman, because he is extremely sexy –"

"Smithers, shut up."

"I mean, I don't find him sexy, but plenty of women must, because he is very successful with the ladies, much more so than I am, which is why I'm definitely not getting any tonight, not that I wouldn't love to have sex with lots of women, because I really would love that, but -"

"Shut...up."

"But women just don't seem to go for me even though I do try to get them to go to bed with me; I really do try, I swear, but they would rather have someone so slender and dignified and powerful and...deliciously seductive like Mr. Burns -"

"That's enough, Smithers!"

"Sorry, sir!" He glanced over to Mayor Robbins to gauge whether he had grown suspicious. "I know my effusive gushing embarrasses you."

"You're right anyway; these fortunes are meaningless. I'll not be engaging in any horizontal refreshment this evening."

"I don't know about that," said Mayor Robbins. "Get a load of mine - _'Your business dealings will bring you great financial rewards.'_ Sounds accurate to me. Hey," he said, "You're just going to a hotel together after dinner, aren't you? I guess that means," he began to laugh uproariously, "you're gonna screw each other!"

Smithers forced a laugh, and Mr. Burns followed suit, jabbing him with his elbow in a jocular fashion. Mr. Burns said, "Yes, what a comical notion!" Then, with sinister insistence, he said, "Isn't it, Smithers?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Ha ha! Boy, would I hate it if that happened!"

Mr. Burns looked at his watch. "Well, look at the time; it's just flown by! We really must get going now; it's been a pleasure doing business with you," he said, shaking Mayor Robbins' hand. He arose and quickly approached the door. "Now hurry up and come already, Smithers." Smithers jumped out of his seat and ran toward him.

Mayor Robbins said, "I bet you'll be saying that all night long!"

"Deugh." He shuddered, then forced a chuckle. "Ah yes, how amusing. Good night, then!" Once he left the room, he said in a low voice to Smithers, "I never want to lay eyes on that lout again." He dropped some cash on his way out, not counting it as whatever excess he paid was worth getting out of there as quickly as possible.

"Mr. Burns, I hate to tell you, but I can't drive us. I'm too intoxicated."

"Why the hell did you drink so much then?" 

"You gave it to me, and I thought we'd be there another hour or so."

"Well, isn't that just peachy."

Smithers pulled out his phone. "What hotel is closest to me?"

The phone replied, "The Cozy Cottage is a half mile north of you."

"Looks like it's a _mo_ tel," he said disdainfully. "Surely there's something around here that better caters to elite men like you." He looked at the screen and scrolled with his finger, scanning the other options. "The Lovers' Lodge is a mile away."

"No," he snapped.

"I didn't think so. I guess it's the Cozy Cottage for us. Once I'm sober enough, I'll walk back here and bring your car over."

"Whoop-dee-doo." As they walked, he said, "You're a real piece of work, you know that, Smithers?"

"Excuse me?"

"What the hell were you thinking, man? Blathering on about how much sex you aren't getting from women and how damned sexy I am!"

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I just -"

"You just what? Thought you'd like to make an ass of us? Thought going on about my sex appeal would dispel his notion of us copulating?"

"I just found you so beguiling, I lost my wits."

"I don't want to hear it." They walked in silence to the Cozy Cottage. At the registration desk, he said, "A room for two, and make it snappy. I've had a stressful day and need to retire."

"I'm sorry," said the young blonde woman at the desk, "we don't have any left. We do have some singles, though."

"Fine. Smithers, you can sleep on the floor."

"Gladly, sir," he said, not even attempting to feign enthusiasm.

She said, "But we can bring in an extra cot -"

"No need," said Mr. Burns. "Smithers would prefer to lie on the floor, wouldn't he?"

"That's right, sir. It'll make it that much easier for you to walk all over me."

"Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you?" he said with a sneer as she swiped one of his credit cards. "I'll be in my room." He took his credit card and room key card and walked to his room.

Smithers took his own key card and followed close behind. He scanned the card for admittance and opened the door. Mr. Burns sat on the bed, facing a mirror affixed to the wall ahead of him. He glared into the mirror, watching as Smithers tentatively stepped forward, dropping his jacket to the floor and loosening his bow tie. "Sir," said Smithers, "I'm sorry. I promise I'll be more discreet in the future."

"You damn well better, or you can kiss that promotion goodbye."

Smithers walked to the bed and sat on the floor, his back to Mr. Burns. "Thanks for holding my hand."

Mr. Burns lay back against the bed, his head next to Smithers'. "Is that all you're going to thank me for?"

He turned his head up and to the side to face him. "Thank you for letting me be in your life."

"I meant the music."

"I thought that was a mistake." 

"Oh, come now. I hired them to come play while you were in the bathroom. You looked like you needed some cheering up."

Smithers smiled warmly. "I knew you were a romantic, Monty."

Mr. Burns tilted his head down and closed his lips over Smithers', hesitantly slipping his tongue in his mouth. He parted their lips after a few seconds to catch his breath, while Smithers still stared adoringly up at him. "Why are you looking at me like that? You want us to have sex?"

"No! No, no. I mean, I always want that, but right now, I'm just looking at you because I love you."

"Everyone else hates me. Why do you love me?"

"I know you better than anyone else. I see your gentle spirit no matter how many times you try to obliterate it. I know you try to kill your kindness because people have always repaid it with backstabbing. I know you don't want to let anyone into your heart because when you have, they've ripped it to shreds. I know you are as afraid of losing me as you are of loving me."

"Balderdash! I'm no more gentle than a Komodo dragon!" he said, sitting upright. "I ought to thrash you for suggesting something so muttonheaded."

Smithers stood and sat on the edge of the bed, his body turned toward Burns at a roughly 45 degree angle. He cleared his throat. "I...brought you something," he said, taking the little box out of his pocket. "I was going to give it to you at the restaurant, but... It's nothing special, just a gift I've kept in my file cabinet just in case the occasion arose."

"Well, give it here, then," he said, and Smithers handed him the box. He opened it to see a gold pocket watch.

"It's an antique 18 karat gold watch," said Smithers. "I had it inscribed."

"Waylon, what is the meaning of this? I already have watches, all of them superior to this one."

"Turn it around," he said, and Mr. Burns followed suit.

He read the inscription, " _'I love you, Monty.'_ "

"The inscription was engraved by hand. I had them copy my handwriting so it looks the way I would write it. I didn't put my name on it, and it's a pocket watch you can easily conceal, so nobody has to know I'm the one who gave it to you."

"It's irrelevant, anyway, as I wouldn't leave the house with such a cheap scrap of metal."

"It was a lot of money for me, and the message is the point."

"Then you should've just written the words on a memo and saved yourself the...however much you spent on it."

"It cost me three thousand dollars!" said Smithers, grabbing his shoulders and turning him so they were face to face. "What the hell do you expect from me? You have a whole mansion full of priceless treasures. There is nothing I could buy that even comes close to measuring up. All I can give you is my love and devotion, and I've been giving you all of that for the last twenty years."

"Waylon, you miss the point."

"What point is that? That you could never love a wretched prole like me?"

"There is no point in you buying me anything. I already know how you feel, and I feel my own way about you. No material offering can change that. Your devotion alone is sufficient."

"I just wanted you to have something durable you could carry with you to remind you that you are loved, always. I don't want you to think you're unloved ever again." Smithers' hands slid down to Burns' elbows.

Mr. Burns put his arms around Smithers' waist. "Now don't try anything funny," he said, guiding him to lie back on the bed, his own torso halfway on top and halfway to the side of him. "Just hold me, Waylon."

"With pleasure, Monty." He wrapped his arms around Mr. Burns' torso just under his arms and squeezed him gently yet firmly. In short order, Mr. Burns drifted off to sleep, his head nestled in the crook of Smithers' neck as his mouth settled into a contented smile. Smithers ran his hand through Burns' hair, sliding it down the back of his neck and back up again and repeating the motion continuously. Smithers stared cherishingly into his peacefully closed eyes, so calm and unassuming they hardly befitted the implacable personality they helped express in the light of day. He relished these times when Burns' guard was down and he had no choice but to capitulate to his tender side.

Smithers kept stroking his back for the next hour until he stirred and groggily said, "Smithers..."

"Yes, dear?" He blushed as he realized he'd replaced "sir" with "dear." He had made the mistake a couple times before and laughed it off as a silly error of speech, but this time, it felt different. This time, it wasn't a mistake, even if it had been unintended.

"What time is it?"

"Ten thirty." As Mr. Burns rolled over slightly, Smithers retracted his arm and caressed his cheek. "As much fun as I've had sobering up with you, I really should go get your car now."

"You're going to go out now? At this hour? What if some ruffians set upon you?"

"Don't worry about me. Just relax here, and I'll be back before you know it."

"No. Take a taxicab there." As Smithers opened his mouth again to downplay his concerns, Burns said, "I insist upon it," and with that, Smithers nodded and called a cab. Just as he was about to leave to catch the cab, Mr. Burns interrupted him. "You do know the true reason I was so mortified by my cookie's prediction?"

"Yes. You don't want people thinking we have that kind of relationship."

"No," he said. "It's because I wanted to make it a reality." Smithers' eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Now off you go! You don't want to keep me waiting."

"No, sir." He scurried off to the cab and once he arrived at Burns' car, he jumped inside and sped all the way back to the motel.


	8. Quarter-Million Dollar Baby

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 8

The next morning, as Mr. Burns awoke, he surveyed his environs. The scratchy motel blanket pulled comfortably taut over his chest. Smithers' glasses askew on his slumbering visage. The smell of cheap liquor abandoned in a pair of whiskey glasses. The blanket abraded his skin like coarse sandpaper as he moved against it, mainly because his frail skin was so sensitive to the texture of the cheap fabric. As he moved, he realized he had no shirt on, and his pants were similarly absent. In fact, he was completely naked.

 _'Oh. Now I remember.'_ His eyes darted to Smithers. _'How shall I face him now? Surely he will expect me to accelerate the pace of my amorous advances.'_ Smithers yawned and rolled over a bit towards him but quickly resumed snoring. _'I'd never touched a man that way...'_ The feel of the hot vapor of Smithers' breath on his neck lingered in his memory. _'With anyone else, it would have felt like an intrusion, but with him, it felt strangely familiar. I am so accustomed to his touch...'_ The clock radio alarm on the nightstand sprang to life, broadcasting a lively rendition of _In the Mood_. _'I yearn for his touch...'_

Smithers opened his eyes slightly, then closed them again. _'Please, God, tell me I didn't just dream that. I would give anything for it to be real.'_ He opened his eyes again, keeping them open for ten seconds, the world remaining a blur as his glasses were crooked and smeared with sweat. _'Oh God, I'm going to say something stupid and scare him off. Okay, Waylon, just play it cool and act like it was no big deal and you're perfectly fine if it never happens again.'_ Burns' bemused tittering as he had responded to their intimate contact the previous night echoed in his mind. Then the tittering had yielded to expressions of craving and satisfaction as their genitals had touched. _'Oh God, I wish I could just take him again now.'_ He opened his eyes again and removed his glasses, grabbed a nearby tissue to wipe the lenses, and placed them back on. _'He's going to tell me this was a horrible mistake and fire me! He's going to tell me he can't stand to look at me anymore. He's going to lash me with caustic remarks.'_

Mr. Burns sat up against the headboard. He turned his head to meet Smithers' trepidatious gaze. Vivacious, he said, "Good morning, Waylon."

He sighed in massive relief, enraptured tears dripping from his eyes. His voice faltering as euphoria replaced disquietude, he said, "Good morning, Monty."

As Smithers helped Mr. Burns get dressed, he mulled over his next words. "I can't believe...I never thought...I never dreamed you'd touch me like that...I mean, I always dreamed, but I never thought... Thank you, sir."

"Yes, well...now that you're my vice president, I needed to think up a way to increase your workload, and you already do everything else for me."

"I'll work overtime any day of the week for you, sir."

"Smithers, please. Your sycophantic nymphomania is growing stale."

"I hope you enjoyed last night even half as much as I did." He handily buttoned down Burns' shirt. "You sounded like you were enjoying yourself."

"I must confess, you are exceptionally good at serving my needs. But then, that's no surprise."

"I must be dreaming. Tell me I'm not dreaming."

He smacked Smithers upside the head with the complimentary newspaper on the nightstand. "There. Now will you shut up about whether you're dreaming?"

"Thank you, sir." He became acutely aware that again, he was nude next to his clothed boss and reached for his boxers.

"You do understand no one can know about this. _No one._ "

He pulled his pants up around his waist. "Of course, sir. I understand more than anyone the need for discretion."

"They would misconstrue the entire affair as some sort of romantic entanglement as opposed to an indulgence of our profligate urges for each other."

His hands freezing over the shirt button he was fastening, he said, "You have urges for me...?"

"Nothing gets past you, Waylon, does it?"

"I've just wanted this for so long...I can hardly believe it."

"Oh, hot dog, here you go again."

"Sorry, but... May I ask why?" He regretted the question the instant it left his lips. "I mean, I always thought you were straight."

"Surely you've witnessed enough of my shady dealings to be under no illusions about my moral turpitude."

"I meant I thought you fancied women. Exclusively."

"Yes, well...you're different from other men. You've been at my side for so long...certain lascivious thoughts have crossed my mind over the years, but it's so repugnant to lust after a young man, particularly one you have paid to serve you for decades. It's as I've said before – no true love can come of one man paying another."

"What kinds of thoughts?"

"You know the sort. Imagining what you looked like in the nude, admiring your physique...there's a reason I've made you do so much exercise for me."

"Anything else?"

"So typical of you striplings, always thirsting for prurient details! All right, if you must know, when you bathed me, I would occasionally fantasize about you getting in the tub with me and...eh...manually stimulating me."

"That's exactly what I've always fantasized about! Why didn't you tell me, sir?"

"I didn't want you to look upon me as a lech." He looked away. "And don't mistake me, Smithers, I'm not one of your kind...I would never look at any other man this way...I suppose you could say I'm 'Smitherssexual'."

"Are you trying to make me swoon? Because this is how you make me swoon," he said, throwing himself back against the mattress, his eyes rolling up in bliss.

"Yes, yes," he said with disinterest. "Now finish getting dressed and take me home! I can't bear another hour in this dreary middle-class hostel."

The next Monday morning at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, Smithers brought in a stack of papers, thumbing through them as he sat in his chair beside Mr. Burns. He sighed ponderously.

"Are those the results of our last internal inspection? Good news, I trust?"

"Yes," he said, "this is the safety inspector's report. But..." he stalled, trying to think up a way to butter him up. "Here," he said, reaching from behind his chair to pull out a dozen red roses. "These are for you."

Caught off guard, his eyes betraying a tender jocundity, Mr. Burns took them gently in his hands, then set them on his desk. "That's a lovely gesture, but what about the report?"

"It's...not good, sir." He handed Mr. Burns a copy of it. "There are some major safety violations here."

"Then call a contractor to come here with his patching trowel and fix it up post-haste!"

"I'm afraid it's significantly more serious than that, sir. Sector 7-G is in a particularly dire state, as our last inspector was grossly incompetent. If we don't fix this by the next NRC inspection, we'll get shut down."

"How much?"

"Most of the sector, as well as some others."

"How much _money_?" he said, his voice growing especially fuming and sinister.

Smithers gulped and leaned back in his chair to put some distance between them, then said softly, "Twenty million dollars."

His eyes bugged out. "Twenty million!"

"I know it's little consolation, but we've weathered worse before, and you've always come out on top again, even in the face of total financial ruin."

"Thank you, Smithers. You're right, though – it's little consolation."

"I'll begin planning allocation of resources to renovate the plant, then have you look it over before giving your approval." He looked over pages of reports and financial estimates for the next few days, calculating and making phone calls to get input from the engineers on his ideas.

On Friday afternoon, he turned to Mr. Burns and said, "I found out how we can save five million dollars on those renovations, sir."

"Let me see that," he said, taking the papers out of his hand. "Brilliant! You certainly know how to earn your keep!"

He beamed. "Thank you, sir. I aim to please."

"Stupendous lackeying, Smithers. You're so...capable. Of many...many things" He dropped a quill pen on the floor. "Well, what are you waiting for? Pick it up." He bent down to pick it up, and Burns attempted to roll it further under the desk with his foot. As it was a quill pen, it was no easy feat. Smithers picked it up, dusted it off, and handed it to Mr. Burns, who promptly dropped it again. When Smithers again ducked to retrieve it, Burns said, "Push it further under the desk in a seductive fashion." Smithers raised an eyebrow in confusion but happily complied. Burns began undoing his belt but encountered difficulty.

Smithers noticed his struggle and said, "Is your belt too tight, sir?"

"Yes, it is."

"I'm sorry. Let me fix it." He loosened the belt by a notch. "Is that better?"

"No."

He loosened it one more notch. "How is that, sir?"

"Keep going."

Smithers loosened by another notch, then looked to Burns' face and kept going. "That's as loose as I can make it, sir. There aren't any more notches on the belt. Besides, it's just hanging off you."

"Not completely off."

Smithers, finally catching his drift, yanked it off him in one fell motion. "Anything else you'd like me to loosen, sir?" He adjusted his glasses sensually.

"Yes, I find my trousers are constricting me."

"I'll say." He made haste undoing the pants. "May I remove them, sir?" he said with rapacity.

"Beg me."

He clasped his hands together as if in prayer, for he really was, and said in desperation, "Oh, please, Monty, let me take your pants off, I beg you, I need you!"

"Call me 'sir'."

"Please, sir, I implore you, I hunger for you, I starve without you!"

"You may take off my pants."

Smithers, overjoyed, pulled his pants off, then teased at the band of Burns' underwear with one hand and caressed his thigh with the other as he placed his head in Burns' lap. "Mmm. Oh God, you've answered my prayers."

"How long are you going to keep me waiting, Waylon?"

"I'm ready when you are, my dear." He slid the underwear off slowly, gently, trying to avoid causing him pain from the friction of the fabric. As soon as the path was clear, he took him into his mouth and loosened his own pants, finding them increasingly constricting.

Mr. Burns thrust his hips forward, bumping Smithers' head up against a button on the underside of the desk. The doors to his office swung open, and several executives stood on the other side. Mr. Burns' face fell in horror. "Can't you see I'm...oh...very busy?"

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Burns," said an executive. Smithers halted his ministrations, his blood running cold and the color draining from his face as he prayed they wouldn't notice him there. "But the NRC just contacted us about the renovations, and..."

"And _what_?" he yelled, pounding the desktop.

"...Mr. Smithers forgot to sign one of these forms. If we can fax this over to NRC HQ before 4:00 p.m., they won't send an investigative team here for another month."

"And what time is it now?"

"3:50."

"Leave it on my desk. Mr. Smithers is in the washroom, but he will return shortly."

"I can go run and get him. I need to go to the bathroom anyway," said one of the executives.

"No, that won't be necessary. He must already be on his way back here."

"Sir, I wouldn't leave this matter to chance. A bad evaluation now would shut us down, and might land you in prison."

"I'm willing to take the risk, now go take a hike! Out, out, out, OUT! All of you, this instant before I fire the lot of you!" One of them cautiously set the form on the desktop, and they scurried out. "Smithers!"

"I'm on it, sir," he said, taking the quill pen from under the desk and leaning over the desktop to dip it in the inkwell. As he signed, he bumped into the door-opening button again, and the group of executives turned back toward the office.

"Mr. Smithers!" one cried out. "I thought you were in the bathroom."

"I...was."

"But how could you get back here so quickly? And without passing us in the hall? Or opening the door? And why are you on your knees?"

Mr. Burns stepped in. "And why are you so damned nosy? You're fired!"

"But - but – on what grounds?"

"Get the hell out of here before I fire the rest of you, too!"

"All right, but I'm on to your faggot flunky. At least I didn't have to suck cock to get my promotion."

Smithers' eyes grew pained. "Michael, how could you say that?"

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" he said, and Smithers' eyes widened in fear. "Uh-huh."

"Cease your licentious gossiping and get the hell out of my office! All of you!" They left again. As soon as the doors shut, he grabbed Smithers by his bow tie. "Zip up and fax this to NRC headquarters. Immediately." Smithers nodded vigorously, shakily zipped up, and ran for the nearest fax machine, form in hand. When he returned, Mr. Burns ordered him to help him put his pants back on, and he did so. "Good job. You imbecile!" He yelled so loudly Smithers was sure the whole plant could hear. "You can't remember to sign a damned form? You've blown it!"

"I sure have," he said, relishing the memory. "I mean, I'm sorry."

"I'll have to demote you for this, you know."

"I understand, sir. As long as I'm your inamorato, I could be flipping burgers for all I care."

"As for that matter," he said, leaning back in his chair and tenting his fingers, "we'll talk about it when we get home."

"You mean we're going to have...the talk?" _The big relationship talk._

"Mm-hm. That's the one." He scowled. "Now turn your chair around. I don't want to look at you until it's time for you to drive me home."

He swiveled his chair around and dropped his head into his hands. He wept silently for the next hour, his heart filling with dread.

When five o'clock rolled around, he turned his chair to face Mr. Burns again and tilted his head up as a gesture to indicate his readiness to drive them. Mr. Burns nodded and followed him out of the office and to his limousine. They drove in silence, the scene eerily familiar to Smithers. He almost hoped for another car crash. At least then he wouldn't have to face rejection. Afraid Mr. Burns would break the silence with earth-shattering news like the last time, he decided to speak up. "I got Bobo back from the cleaner today." He glanced in the central rearview mirror to gauge his response. "I put him in the storage compartment next to your mace. Give him a squeeze – I made sure they didn't damage a hair on his body."

Mr. Burns looked to the compartment with one eye, keeping the other fixed on Smithers as he rifled through until he felt the familiar fur of his precious teddy, then drew it to his chest, hugging and squeezing and caressing it. Smithers felt a pang of embarrassment for being so damn jealous of an inanimate bear and contemplated donning his Bobo costume upon their arrival. Maybe it would dissuade him from giving up on their relationship just yet. All the same, he loved seeing his Monty hugging Bobo. It brought out the innocence in him, and he just looked adorable. Furthermore, it served as a reminder of all that Smithers was willing to go through to make his beloved happy.

"Monty, I – I hope you can forgive me." Getting no response, he gripped the steering wheel tighter and said, "Please forgive me."

"Just finish what you started as soon as we get home. Then we'll call it square, old friend."

 _Old friend. I guess that's his answer. We're not lovers - just friends with benefits. Not that I don't like that...I'm thrilled to have this much of him. But I guess no matter how much of him I have, I'll always want more. I'll want to hold him every night. I'll want to kiss him every dawn. I'll want to be in him. I'll want to have him in me. I'll want to marry him. I'll want to raise his child. I'll want to be able to shout so loud the whole town can hear that I love Monty Burns and he loves me too. And I'll want it to be true. I'll want him to love me more than he loves his money. I'll want him to long for me and ache for me as much as I have for him. I'll want him to care about me more than he cares about himself, as I care for him. And I know that is just never going to happen._

"No, Monty, I won't. We need to talk first. I don't want to make love to you one more time without knowing where you stand."

"Making _love_? Good god, Waylon, what compels you to employ such a trite euphemism?"

"I understand if it's just sex for you, but for me, when we're intimate together, I'm making love to you. It's meaningful to me."

"We'll talk when we get there."

 _I have our wedding planned out, down to the orchids and the orchestra. Our marriage would be more comfortable than passionate – basically what we have always had, the only differences being Monty declaring his love for me and his desire to spend the rest of his days with me and getting frisky every now and then. We would use his DNA to conceive a child in a test tube. I have the name picked out for his child, his heir – Waylon Charles Burns for a boy, Charlene Montgomery Burns for a girl. He didn't want a girl for an heir, but he would change his mind if she were his own flesh and blood._

He let out a strained chuckle. _What on Earth would Monty think if he heard my thoughts now? It would probably scare him off enough to prompt him to break up with me entirely. He has no idea the full extent of the adoration I lavish on him. Oh, Monty. You are so cute when you hug your Bobo. I am so happy you have your Bobo at last. To have yearned for something you've loved for decades on end but had no hope of ever getting...I am intimately acquainted with the feeling._

He pulled into Burns Manor and guided him to the door. When they entered, he sat Mr. Burns down on a divan and got a bottle of wine and two glasses. He poured a glass for Mr. Burns and then a very large one for himself and sat beside him. _Okay, Waylon – you've worked for the man for over twenty years. In all that time, you never truly believed you'd get this far with him. If he wants our relationship to be strictly business, I should be content; I should at least be forever grateful to him for fulfilling some of my deepest fantasies._

"I am extremely disappointed in you, Waylon," he said, sipping his wine. "You are normally so careful filling out paperwork. How could you make such a grievous error on a matter of such import?"

"Did you just promote me because I give good head?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Was Michael right? Is that the only reason you promoted me?"

"I told you, you've been qualified for years." He took a large sip of wine. "But yes."

"In that case, you can't demote me. I step down. I don't want to get a job that way."

"Smithers...perhaps I was too hasty with that 'demotion' talk. You deserve this job. You deserved it when I was denying it to you, and you deserve it now. What difference does it make why I granted you the position? Is it less noble than getting a job through nepotism?"

"That's a pretty low bar to clear, sir."

"Then have it your way; take your old position," he said, putting a hand on Smithers' shoulder. "Wait for my return. Then I'll discuss our...relationship."

 _He does seem to genuinely think I'm the right man for the job...but I couldn't go to work every day with everyone thinking I'm only where I'm at because I'm sleeping with the boss. I had enough humiliation growing up. I'm not going to stand for it as an adult._

When Mr. Burns returned, he sat down next to Smithers, took his hand, looked into his eyes, and said, "I'm so sorry. At this time, I cannot give you what you would really want." Smithers did his level best to suppress his tears, reminding himself that he already had much more than he ever thought possible, but he failed miserably and broke down crying. Mr. Burns kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, "I hope you can still be happy."

"You know I'll be happy as long as I'm with you." His crying devolved into sobbing.

Mr. Burns said, "Why are you crying? I thought this would make you happy!"

"Happy? How could you possibly think this would make me happy?"

"I put a lot of thought into this, and you'd damn well better appreciate it!"

"I do appreciate the ramifications of your decision, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. You know how much I'd rather we be a couple."

"What are you prattling on about, Waylon?"

"Please don't refer to my heartbreak as 'prattling,' sir."

"Deugh...Look in your hand."

"Huh?"

"Just look!" He did, and he saw a large metal pocket watch studded with large red gems and inscribed: _Waylon, my love, time stands still for me when we kiss_. "It's platinum, including the movement, and it's studded with the finest rubies my lapidary could furnish. Its timing mechanism is one of the finest in the world, the best one my horologist had at his immediate disposal. I know you're partial to emeralds, but the emeralds my lapidary had just weren't up to par and I didn't want to wait for them to ship better ones, so I hope you like it anyway."

"Oh my God...you...for me...I don't know what to...how much did this set you back?"

"Oh, you and your pricetaggery. Very well, if you must know, it was $244,000. And three cents." Smithers fell back in a faint. "Oh, dear..." When he came to, Burns was leaning over his face, frowning. "What's the matter with you now?"

"I can't believe you spent a quarter of a million dollars on me."

He dismissively waved his hand and said, "It's only a few years of your salary."

"Oh, Monty..." Mr. Burns kissed him to shut him up. "What could possess you to give me such an opulent gift?"

He paused and stared into Smithers' eyes, lightly touching his cheek. "I love you, Waylon."

"That's an even better present than the watch."

"Oh, _now_ you tell me, after I already spent a quarter million dollars on you." He snuggled his head against Smithers' neck, and Smithers brought him closer into his embrace, running his fingertips from Burns' shoulder to elbow and back.

"I love you, too, Monty." He held him closer.

"Well, duh!"


	9. Office Chase

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 9

Smithers stood in line at the executive lunchroom, two trays in hand – one for his lunch, and the other for Burns'. The men behind him in line snickered; the few words he overheard indicated they were part of a ribald joke, though they were uttered in rancor.

"That Smithers is such a bootlicker..." said Cho.

"You mean 'balls-licker'!" said Laney.

Then, one of the men, Keeling, said in a conspicuously loud voice, "Whose dick do you have to suck to get promoted around here? Oh, that's right – Burns'! Wouldn't _you_ know, Smithers?"

"You don't know what you're talking about. That's just a rumor spread by a disgruntled former employee."

"Quit playing dumb. Everyone in Springfield knows you're a cocksucker."

"Oh, so since I'm gay I'll just go down on any man for any reason, is that what you think?"

"But it's true, isn't it?"

"No. Now leave me alone."

"No, I won't. Not until you step down. Everybody knows you don't deserve that job."

"Really? Which one of us has been 'Employee of the Month' over 200 times?"

"Of course he'd give 'Employee of the Month' to his favorite little cocksucker."

"Stop calling me that. I wasn't even going down on him back then."

"Back then? So you do admit it."

Smithers' face fell into a panic. "N-no, that's not what I meant at all! I just misspoke."

"Uh-huh. Sure you did."

"I will look you straight in the eye and tell you one more time – I do not suck my boss' dick to climb the corporate ladder." _I do it because he turns me on._ "You will stop making these accusations, or I'll have you disciplined for creating a hostile work environment."

"I'm sure HR would be _very_ interested to know about your highly inappropriate relationship with your boss. I'll be sure to inform them. Unless, of course, you step down and allow someone more deserving to take your position."

Smithers raised his brows in worry, then creased them with renewed resolve. "There is nothing inappropriate about my relationship with Mr. Burns. I am his assistant and vice president, and nothing more." As he approached the exit, trays filled with food, he turned and said, "Don't fuck with me, Derrick. It's not wise to cross the most powerful man in Springfield's right hand man."

He entered Mr. Burns' office with their trays of food. "Smithers, what took you so long?" said Mr. Burns, indignant.

"I'm sorry, sir." He set their lunch trays on the desk. "They were saying...they were saying...that they ran out of the tapioca pudding you like so much and they had to get some more."

He smiled. "That's all right, the food is here now. You didn't let it get cold, did you?" He poked the filet mignon on his plate with his finger to gauge its temperature.

"No, sir," he said, beginning to relax. There was nothing like spending time in Mr. Burns' company to put him at ease. "Here," he said, taking a knife and fork and cutting up his steak. Once he had finished, Mr. Burns stared at the plate before him. "Is something not to your liking?"

"You were going to say something else."

"Huh?"

"You shifted gears. You said, 'they were saying...'"

"Oh. Just...some of the guys at the lunch line...it was nothing."

His voice sinister, he said, "Spill it."

"They were saying I only got this job because I suck your dick."

"Tell me who these agitators are and I'll fire them. That ought to shut the others up."

"As much as I enjoy seeing your glee at firing employees, I don't think that will solve this problem. It might make it worse."

"What's your point, Waylon?"

"I think you should demote me."

"No. I want you to be my vice president. Step down if you feel so strongly about it."

"See, sir, I don't think that will work. If I step down, it'll look like a tacit admission of guilt."

"We'll discuss this further after lunch," he said, taking a bite.

"Excellent decision, sir."

"I hope you're looking forward to the Paris conference."

"You know I always look forward to our trips together." Smithers began eating his own steak.

"Some of the finest restaurants in the world are in Paris. I could take you to them."

"I would like that very much, sir."

"I will reserve an entire restaurant for one night and have all the waitstaff searched for cameras so we would be effectively alone. There would be no need for pretense. You could kiss me with abandon."

Smithers' eyes lit up and welled with tears. "Oh, Monty..."

"And at the hotel...we would be truly alone." He locked eyes with Smithers. "I would like to...try something new with you there."

Smithers stopped breathing, yet his chest quivered all the same as he sat mesmerized, his eyes trained to Burns' as he made a valiant effort to quell the passion swelling up inside him. "Like...like what?"

"I want you on your back with your buttocks spread. I have a new aphrodisiac I'd like to test." Smithers began laughing deliriously. "If you find it so amusing then forget I said anything."

"No, no, I'm not making fun. I'm just unfathomably happy." He swallowed his bite of steak. "Kiss me, Monty."

Mr. Burns leaned over and kissed him tenderly. "There. Now shut up and eat your steak."

Smithers looked adoringly at him as he resumed eating. When they finished, Smithers collected their plates and headed for the door.

"Oh, Smithers?" he said, tenting his fingers. "About those men who were haranguing you. Bring them to me."

"But sir, it'd be foolish to fire them now! It would just make everyone else resent me even -"

"I have had it up to here with your contumelious back-sassing! You may be my vice president now, but you are still subordinate to me. You will halt your attempts to usurp my authority immediately!"

"Or what? You'll demote me?"

"No. No, you'd like that. I'll fire you!"

"But sir -"

"There you go again!"

"Sir, I only meant to advise you."

"On how to clean up _your_ mess, I might add."

"What?"

"Your lack of discretion is how those rumors began to circulate in the first place."

Smithers crossed his arms and rolled his eyes as he said quietly, "That's not how I remember it."

"I beg your pardon?"

" _You_ seduced _me_! Don't you try to pin all the blame on me just because I missed a signature. It takes two to tango, Monty."

"That tears it! You will fall into line immediately, or you will sleep in your apartment tonight."

"Please, we can discuss this."

"There is nothing to discuss. I am your boss and you will do as I say. I do not need your permission to fire whoever I damn well please!"

"Very well, sir. I'll bring them in. But I'll be sleeping in my apartment tonight."

"You don't have the guts."

"Try me."

"Don't forget to shut the gate on your way out. Now bring those rabble-rousers to me."

Smithers wordlessly went to the monitor screens and turned the intercom on. "Derrick Keeling, Jay Cho, Todd Laney, Francisco Fernandes – report to the office of C. Montgomery Burns." He flicked the intercom off. "Sir...please, for your own sake - demote me. If the other executives turn against me, their efficiency will plummet."

"Perhaps you're right." The men entered one by one. "On the other hand, it's my decision." He swiveled in his chair to face the four men standing before him. "So, you are the men who have been harassing my new vice president."

Keeling turned to Cho and whispered, "Looks like Smithers tattled on us to his sugar daddy." Cho laughed but quickly composed himself as Burns and Smithers took notice.

"What he means," said Fernandes, "is that all of us executives would like more transparency into the promotion process to ensure that there isn't...ahem, favoritism."

"Why didn't you just say so? I have a file here," he said, reaching into his drawer and struggling to pick up a hefty file folder. "Smithers..." At his beckoning, Smithers swiftly lifted the manilla folder out of the drawer and placed it on the table in front of them. "This file here details the myriad ways Smithers has distinguished himself by keeping this plant running efficiently and saving me millions of dollars this week alone. Take as long a look as you please, gentlemen. Should any of your performance records eclipse his, feel free to petition for his job." They thumbed through the files, searching desperately for any flaws. "Mm-hm. I thought so. Now, you promise you'll stop spreading this nonsense about Smithers being some kind of man whore?"

"Oh, yes, sir, we promise," they all said frantically in unison, in relief.

"Good, good, then. In this day and age, with the proliferation of diversity laws, the courts would frown upon your actions, deeming them a form of sexual harassment. And I for one will not let myself be on the hook for your shenanigans. So apologize to him."

Fernandes said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Smithers. I shouldn't have assumed that you would...just because you're...I really don't have a problem with that, you know – your lifestyle, I mean."

Laney said, "I'm sorry, too, Mr. Smithers. That was not workplace-appropriate banter."

Cho said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Smithers. I hope we can put this behind us."

Keeling, arms folded, said as he stared with narrowed eyes at Smithers, "Sorry."

"There," said Mr. Burns. "Don't you feel better now that you've made amends?" They begrudgingly nodded in the affirmative, and Mr. Burns gave them a sinister stare. "Well, I don't." His voice jovial again, he spoke with rapidity: "Goodbye, gentlemen – don't bother to clear out your desks; Smithers, release the hounds."

Smithers pressed a button that opened a secret doggy door where vicious dogs leapt out from and charged the four men, chasing them out of the room and then gnawing on them as they caught up. They walked to the hallway and chortled as they watched the men rolling around and screaming for mercy. "Sir, you know how to cheer me up better than I do."

"Pour us some bubbly. I want to savor this moment."

Smithers poured them some champagne into two glasses and returned to where Mr. Burns stood, handing him his glass. Mr. Burns tilted his glass toward Smithers'. "Cheers, Waylon." 

Their glasses clinked. "Cheers, Monty." They intertwined their arms as they simultaneously took a long, slow sip, eyes relishing in the suffering.

Swallowing his champagne and unhooking their arms, Mr. Burns let out a contented sigh and said, "Taste that? That, my friend, is the taste of power."


	10. It Didn't Happen One Night

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 9

Smithers admired Mr. Burns' slender figure sporting his white and red pinstripe suit in the mirror as he adjusted Burns' tie from behind him, gently compressing his shoulders in a light hug as he shifted his gaze to stare lovingly into his eyes. "You have the most beautiful eyes, Monty."

Squinting his eyes flirtatiously, he said, "Oh, Waylon..." He pulled away from Smithers' grasp and turned to face him.

Smithers pulled him back in for a hug. "You may be the billionaire, but I'm the most fortunate man in the world."

"Spare me your mawkish sentiments and get dressed already. We want to be fashionably late, not unfashionably belated." He put on his ivory panama hat and inspected himself in the mirror.

"Yes, dear," he said, removing his jacket. This time, his phrasing was completely intentional. He finished dressing into his midnight blue tuxedo and adjusted his bow tie in the mirror.

Voice low and serious, Mr. Burns said, "Turn around." Slightly apprehensive, Smithers did as he was told. "Excellent. I daresay you will outshine me."

"No one could surpass your radiance, dear."

He laughed dismissively. "Quit your flattery. Why, with your youthful skin and smart dressing...all eyes will be on you."

"I'm not flattering you. I mean it. You are too brilliant to outshine."

"I want them to notice you. My vice president should look worthy of the title."

"You mean you want to show me off?"

"I mean it's time we reinvented you."

"Into what?"

"From lackey to partner."

"I...I thought you liked my lackeying."

"You are exquisitely talented at it. But I've grown to respect you, and you've proven yourself to be your own person. You're the only person I enjoy seeing defy me."

"Oh, really? Then how come you either fire or threaten to fire me almost every time I do?"

"There would be no reason to respect your stolid resolve if you were secure in the knowledge that your defiance would have no consequences." He thrust his car keys into Smithers' hands. "Now let's depart."

Smithers smiled and followed him to the door. Just after Mr. Burns turned the doorknob and pulled the door ajar, Smithers shut it again, cupped Mr. Burns' neck in his hand, leaned in, and kissed him passionately. He opened the door and stepped over the threshold when Mr. Burns took his hand and gave him a devious grin. Smithers looked back into his eyes with an amatory expression and held his gaze all the way to the car.

They arrived at the Springfield Glen Country Club at 7:15 and Mr Burns began to make the rounds of his circle of eminent acquaintances, introducing Smithers to people who had seen them together for years.

"A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Jones. I would like you to meet Mr. Smithers, my new executive vice president."

"We've met before. On multiple occasions," said Mr. Jones.

"Ah, but you've only met Smithers the lackey. You've yet to meet Vice President Waylon Smithers."

Smithers smiled warmly yet sharply as he extended his hand to greet him. "Good to see you again, Mr. Jones. How is the business treating you? I hear it's hell to be in publishing these days."

"Some days I feel like we're circling the drain, but then just last week we landed a contract with a major e-reader company." He took a sip of his martini. "But how about your industry? I hear people are more nervous about nuclear than ever."

"Yes, well there are always naysayers and knee-jerk environmentalists, but nuclear power is much cleaner than coal," _or at least it would be if Mr. Burns didn't cut costs on disposal of radioactive materials by dumping them in parks_ , he thought. "People are surprised to learn that, and when they do, it changes how they view nuclear energy."

Mr. Burns motioned to a waiter to top off his and Smithers' glasses of champagne. He clanked his glass against Smithers' and they each took a sip. Mr. Jones bid them goodbye as he sought out his wife. "Ah, Mr. Barnes," said Mr. Burns as he approached the man, a balding nonagenarian wearing bifocals. "Mr. Barnes, this is my new vice president, Mr. Waylon Smithers."

"Oh, yes, Smithers. He recommended my new chauffeur to me."

"That's Mr. Smithers to you now."

"Yes, of course. Mr. Smithers," he said, reaching his hand out. Smithers shook it briefly and firmly.

"So..." said Smithers, apprehensive. "How is he working out?"

"Well, I doubt he works out much, but he is doing a fine job. Thanks for the recommendation." Smithers let out a long sigh of relief. "So, have you met the latest inductee to the club?"

"Miss Tully?" said Mr. Burns.

"No," said Smithers, "we haven't."

Mr. Barnes leaned in and said quietly, "I hear she has a thing for you," and winked at Mr. Burns.

Smithers frowned and crossed his arms. "That's ridiculous. She's 45. What could she possibly want with a man twice her age?"

Mr. Barnes widened his eyes in shock that Smithers had expressed such frank skepticism in front of two elderly magnates. Mr. Burns shot him a look that indicated he really wanted to say, _Exactly what you've wanted from me for twenty years._

"Not that you aren't...attractive, sir," Smithers said, mulling over his word choice. "I just don't want you to get your heart broken by some gold digger. I know I don't want her to break my heart. If I were in your shoes, that is."

"Don't worry...Mr. Smithers," said Mr. Burns. "I'm sure it's only a rumor, anyway." He took another sip of champagne, and Smithers followed suit.

Maureen Tully stepped through the entrance where servants took her coat. Her hair shone in red shoulder-length curls that brushed against her necklace of white pearls. Her slender yet busty figure was adorned with a green pencil dress and her willowy wrist was wrapped in an ostentatious diamond-studded bracelet. Her face free of wrinkles, it was apparent she had had some plastic surgery to appear to be in her twenties.

Mr. Barnes let out a prolonged whistle of appreciation. "Isn't she beautiful?" he said to Burns and Smithers.

Under his breath, Smithers, voice full of bile, said through gritted teeth, "I hate her."

"Shh," said Mr. Burns, jabbing Smithers with his elbow.

She scanned the crowd, her eyes lighting up when she spied Mr. Burns. She sashayed to where they stood and flipped her bangs as she got within spitting distance of him. "So, I hear you're this city's most venerated centenarian." Her voice had a slight southern drawl.

"Well, I don't know about _most_..." said Mr. Burns, blushing and looking at his fingernails. "I'm Monty Burns."

She shook his hand. "Most delighted to meet you, Monty. My father runs Missouri Energy Holding. Have you heard of it?"

"Yes, my plant utilizes a number of their electrical generators."

"My, it's a small world, isn't it? Anyway, I decided to relocate because he kept taking exception to my beaus." She grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray held by a nearby butler. "But now," she twirled a lock of her hair, then drew her finger to within a centimeter of his nose, "he can't...say...boo." She touched his nose briefly, triggering a coy laugh. "He's been on my case since my graduation from Yale, when I left the ceremony early to marry my history professor." She pursed her lips. "Oh, but he's dead, now. He died fifteen years ago."

Smithers looked on in horror, frantically trying to conceive of a plan to keep them apart until finally he hit upon one. _It's just crazy enough to work...dear God, I've spent too much time around Homer Simpson. Oh, well, it's the best I can come up with under pressure. Here goes nothing._ "Maureen, you are captivating me more every second you speak. Oh – I've been remiss. I'm Mr. Smithers, Executive Vice President of Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, but you can call me Waylon," he said, his eyelids lowered and his hand outstretched. She unenthusiastically shook his hand, and he gently drew her hand near his chest and said, staring seductively into her eyes, "My dear, your eyes sparkle more brilliantly than the most sparkling of sparkling wines."

"Why, thank you...Waylon."

The band started to play a slow song. "Care to dance?"

"I was going to talk more to..." she trailed off as she noted the pleading look in Smithers' eyes. "Well...okay. Let's dance."

He led her to the dance floor and held her close. This was his first time attempting to seduce a woman in twenty years, so he was trepidatious about his every move. He didn't want to betray his lack of interest in her, but he didn't want to come off as a creep, either, and flirting in the gay scene was often...bolder than what most women might welcome. "Those pearls are gorgeous," he said, twirling her and then bringing his arm around her waist again. "But nowhere near as gorgeous as you."

"Thank you...I like your cufflinks."

"Thanks. Monty gave them to me."

"They stood out to me from across the room."

"I'm glad somebody noticed them. They're 18 karat gold and inscribed with my initials and studded with emeralds. That's my favorite gem, you know. Green is my favorite color. Fabulous dress, by the way."

"You say Monty gave them to you."

"Yes," he said, staring dreamily into space.

"It seems like an awful spendy gift for a man to give his employee."

"Well, I've worked for him for twenty years, now, and he values me. He's not just my employer. He's also my best friend."

"So you would know. What does he like in a woman?"

"Well, uh...he likes women who aren't afraid to let loose with vulgar slang. He hates it when women are too prim and proper. And he likes his women to dominate him. Oh, and don't forget to mention that love is more important than money."

"Thanks, Waylon. I'll keep that in mind."

"I take it this means you aren't interested in taking things further with me."

"I'm afraid not."

"So you really want to pursue Monty?"

"Yes. I do. Frankly, he turns me on more than any other man has."

"I'll give you five thousand dollars if you leave him alone."

"What?"

"I'll write you a check as soon as the night is through, just promise not to flirt with him ever again."

"No!" She broke out of their dance position.

"Ten thousand. Please, I'm begging you," he said, grabbing her wrists.

She pulled her arms out of his grasp. "What the hell is this about, Waylon?"

"I just...don't want him to get hurt."

"I'm not interested in him for his money. God, you really are just like the others! Why can't you understand that someone can be attracted to an older person without there being an ulterior motive?"

 _I understand all too well._

"This dance is over," she said, indignant. "And I don't buy your flimsy excuse for one second. You're not doing this out of concern for your boss. You just want me all to yourself!"

Smithers sighed deeply. "You got me. That was my true motive. I'm sorry."

She went back to talk to Mr. Burns, and Smithers skulked around the outskirts of the party, eyes trained on Mr. Burns and Miss Tully as he sipped from a cocktail of equal parts cognac, brandy, vodka, and sirop de Picon. He watched them take to the dance floor and ordered another cocktail identical to the one he was drinking and drank it down in short order.

 _He'll leave me for her for sure. She has what I can never provide him. I was just an experimental fling for him. Just a toy to play with until the next pretty young thing in a skirt looked his way. He'll never love me as I love him._ He could feel his tenuous masquerade crumbling as tears began to flow freely at the thoughts coursing uncontrollably through his mind. He crossed the room, his head turned to the floor as he rushed to the men's room. Once there, he grabbed a towel from the bathroom attendant and dabbed his eyes with it.

"Something wrong, sir?" asked the attendant.

"No, nothing," he said, sniffling back his tears. "Just the love of my life is leaving me and there's nothing I can do about it!" He sat on the couch at the entrance and leaned over the armrest, bawling. "It's over...it's over...it's over...it's over..."

"What's over?" Mr. Burns said in a blend of confusion and concern. "Smithers, collect yourself and come back to the party."

"I-I'm afraid I c-can't – I can't d-do that, sir."

"We need to talk." Smithers shut his eyes tightly, wishing he could turn the world off. "Waylon...come with me."

"I have no choice, do I?"

"No, you don't." Smithers hauled himself upright, flicked away as many tears as he could, and followed Mr. Burns out of the bathroom and out of the ballroom and out onto the balcony. Mr. Burns closed the glass and gold doors behind them, and they stood side by side, staring out into the night and not at each other. "It's true I find her very attractive. I would love to bed her."

"Please, sir, stop torturing me like this and get it over with."

"I haven't finished. It's also true that I find you very attractive."

"So? You're 99% straight. Why should you forswear women after a century of unwavering heterosexuality?"

"Because you're the only person whose feelings I give a damn about. You know I can't help myself when you stare at me with those sad puppy dog eyes."

"Does this mean you're staying with me?"

"Yes." He turned to face Smithers and touched his elbow to get him to turn towards him. "Your bow tie is mussed," he said, taking it into his hands, untying it, and tying it neatly. Smithers simpered at his unusually solicitous touch. He took a cloth from his pocket, removed Smithers' glasses, and wiped the lenses in slow circles. As he placed the glasses back over the bridge of his nose, they hung crooked around Smithers' ears. Mr. Burns smiled and Smithers adjusted the tentacles of his spectacles so they fit securely over his ears.

"I'm glad, Monty."

"Now let's return to the party. We'll have dinner together."

"That sounds good. I could use some food, especially after drinking all that alcohol."

"That's the spirit!" He put his arm around Smithers' shoulder and opened the balcony doors, leading the way to the table reserved for them. Guiding him into a chair, he said, "What do you want to eat?"

"You're asking me?"

"Yes. I'll get you your dinner. What is so strange about that?"

"It's just, you've never...the mahi mahi steak and salad, please."

He came back with a platter of fish and salad and a small dish of dressing. "Enjoy."

"What about your dinner, sir?" he said mid-bite.

"I think I'll skip it. I filled up on caviar."

"No, no, you need to keep up your strength. I'll get you something."

"Don't bother. I won't eat it."

"At least have a bite of my mahi mahi. It's delicious."

"All right. If you insist." He took a bite off Smithers' fork. "Excellent."

"Have another bite," he said, placing his elbow on the table and holding his cheek in the palm of his hand and batting his eyes as he pierced another segment of fish with his fork and brought it to hover in front of Mr. Burns' mouth. He swayed his fork in a tantalizing fashion as he raised a shoulder to his chin and smiled coquettishly. "You know you want it..."

"Very well." He took the second bite and moaned in satisfaction as he swallowed. Smithers giggled and fed him another bite.

"Incredible," said Mrs. Doyle from the adjacent table. "That Smithers is a shameless flirt. I can't believe Monty still can't see it."

"He doesn't even know the man is queer," said Mr. Doyle. "His cataracts must be preventing him from reading the giant rainbow neon sign over his head. I mean, a musical about Malibu Stacy dolls? Could it be any more obvious?"

Mr. Burns overheard their conversation, though Smithers was too engrossed in Mr. Burns to notice. "Mr. Smithers, I think I'll get my own dinner now," said Mr. Burns, standing.

"Aw, we were just starting to have some fun."

"Perhaps you were having fun. I was not."

"Oh. Okay. I'll get your dinner for you," he said, starting to get up from his chair. "Just tell me what you want."

"Don't bother." He walked over to the counter where they prepared a mahi mahi steak for him.

While he was away from the table, Maureen Tully seated herself next to Smithers. "Hello, Waylon," she said.

"Hello, Maureen."

"Now, don't you get any ideas. I'm here for Monty."

Smithers smirked and sipped his water. "Yeah, well, good luck to you." He clanked his glass against hers and laughed devilishly, relishing in Mr. Burns' declaration that he would be faithful to him.

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"Don't you get your hopes up, little girl."

"Excuse me, I'm a woman, not a girl. I'm your age for Chrissake."

"Sorry. I'm a little bit drunk."

"You're getting drunk on my account? Jesus, you just met me. You can't be head over heels in love that fast."

"You seem pretty intent on taking Monty away and you just met him."

"That's different. His reputation precedes him. I've had a crush on him long before I met him in the flesh. He's the reason I moved to Springfield."

"I'm so sorry," he said, genuine empathy displacing his earlier antipathy. He knew all too well the pain of an unrequited love for the one and only Charles Montgomery Burns.

"About what? You know something, don't you?"

"Let's just say, I wouldn't get my hopes up just yet."

Mr. Burns returned with his dinner. "Ah, the lovely Miss Tully. How has the evening found you so far?"

"Terrific since I met you," she said, leaning towards him on the table as Smithers had done earlier. "I'll be counting the days until our rendezvous."

Smithers furrowed his brow. "Rendezvous? What rendezvous, Monty?"

"He asked me out on a date to the Gilded Truffle."

"You **WHAT**?" he shouted, standing up and slamming the palms of his hands on the table as he fumed at Mr. Burns. All heads turned to him.

"I asked her out. What has gotten into you, Mr. Smithers? You've been strangely adversarial tonight."

"What's MY problem? You have the gall to – after you – you know, you can't keep treating your _employees_ this way and expect them to just stand and take it."

Mr. Doyle said, "Smithers, isn't it enough that you're a queen? Do you have to be a drama queen, too?"

Miss Tully looked to him in confusion. "Don't call him gay! He's nuts about me."

"Are you kidding me? More like he's nuts about nuts." Mr. Doyle chuckled. "Seriously, Smithers, isn't it past time you came out of the closet? I mean, what's the point of staying in there when the door is wide open and everyone can see you?"

"What makes you think he's gay?"

"Come on. He's obsessed with the Malibu Stacy doll, even wrote a damn musical about it. He hasn't been with a woman in twenty years, he's well-known in Springfield's gay district, he co-ran a gay bar, and he flirts like crazy with Mr. Burns."

She turned to Smithers and shouted, "You **WHAT**?"

Mr. Burns sweated and said in a panic, "Mr. Smithers, these allegations are revolting. They aren't true, are they?"

"No, sir. I'm not gay. I'm definitely not flirting with you; I don't know what kind of perverted mind you have to have to misconstrue my professional attentiveness as something dirty. I'll have you know I'm infatuated with Miss Tully."

"That's what I thought!" she said.

"Yeah, right," said Mrs. Doyle.

As the commotion died down and they regained relative privacy, Smithers turned to Mr. Burns and said, "Sir, how could you do this to me? You know how I feel about _Maureen_ , and you know this is crushing me. I thought you said you cared about my feelings."

"Shut up, Smithers."

"No, Monty, I won't shut up. I thought we were...friends."

"Waylon, you're drunk. And whatever gave you that cockamamie idea of us being friends?"

"Can't you defend me at least once?"

"I already have. Now shut up and eat your dinner."

"Would it kill you to speak in _my_ defense for once?"

"Quite possibly, yes!"

"Fine. If you're going to be that way, I might as well wait in the car."

"If that's what you want."

Mrs. Cummings, an elderly woman seated at an adjacent table, turned to her husband and said, "They fight just like an old married couple. As we would know!" Mr. Burns cringed and Smithers left, teeth gritted in anger.


	11. There's Something About Burnsie

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 11

Smithers lay across the seat of the passenger compartment of the limousine, his mind racing through all the things Mr. Burns could be doing with Miss Tully. _Is he dancing with her? Is he holding her tight against his body? Is he kissing her?_ He would never know. _Sure, it was easy for him to promise fidelity out on the balcony, but without my watchful eye to keep him honest, will he make good on that promise, or break it like he's broken so many promises to other men? How can he resist such a strong temptation?_

"Mr. Smithers?" Homer tapped at the window.

He sniffed and said through tears, "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to thank you for getting me this job." He averted his gaze. "Uh, are you okay?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

Smithers rolled down the passenger window and rested his forearm on the ledge. "A pretty young woman is all over Mr. Burns, and he asked her on a date. I have no chance with her around."

"Well, if you want to get her out of the way..."

"I'm not going to have her murdered."

"No, I was going to say you could fix her up with an eligible young bachelor."

"I already tried seducing her. She is genuinely attracted to him and wouldn't have anything to do with me."

"Well, if she's into old dudes, we could try setting her up with Mr. Barnes."

"Yes! When he comes back to the car, ask him if he went after that Maureen Tully you've read about in the society pages. When he says she's into Mr. Burns, you flatter the hell out of him by saying he's much more attractive and a far better catch than Mr. Burns."

"Oh, you mean like tell him I would totally go gay for him?"

"Eh, that might be laying it on a bit too thick."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"Why don't you sit down," he said, opening the door and sitting himself upright as he motioned for Homer to sit.

They chatted for another two hours, Homer regaling him with stories as mundane as the tales of candy bars that got stuck on his back and as fascinating as his exploits in various jobs he'd had. He spoke of his training at NASA, his time designing a car at Powell Motors, his stint as the Springfield Monorail conductor, and the circumstances of his dishonorable discharge from the Navy.

"At least mine was an 'other than honorable' discharge."

"Really? You don't seem like the type to screw up. What did you do to earn that?"

"Oh, um...I had a tryst with a virile young sailor."

"Oh..."

"You know, you're not so bad."

"I'm not."

"Smithers, why is this blubbery oaf sitting in my limousine?" said Mr. Burns, approaching them.

"Ah!" screamed Homer, jumping out of the car. "I'd better get back to Mr. Barnes' car before he gets back." As he ran off, he shouted, "It was nice talking to you, Smithers!"

Smithers chuckled, then scowled. "Did you have a nice time with your girlfriend, sir?"

"We'll talk about it when we get home."

"Very well," said Smithers, getting out of the car and heading for the driver's door. They embarked on yet another silent trip to Burns Manor.

The second he shut the mansion door behind them, he said, "Well? Did you kiss that little hussy?"

"Allow me to explain."

"Okay," Smithers said, his eyes solemn. "So tell me. Did you mean what you said, or not?"

"What I said about what?"

"About being exclusive to me."

"Waylon..."

"Well? Did you?"

"Yes."

"Monty, I don't get you. One minute you're showing me the time of my life, and the next...you make me feel like I'm nothing to you. Then you say you really meant those words of love, but your actions belie your words."

"It's only for appearances."

"What?"

"How would it look if I spurned a beautiful young temptress who was all but throwing herself at me? People already speak of us as if we were a couple."

Smithers sighed deeply, yet he still felt tension in his chest. "That's a relief. But...won't the temptation be too much?"

"It will be an albatross, no doubt." He took one of Smithers' hands in his. "I will do my best." He handed his hat and coat to Smithers and poured himself some brandy in a snifter. He sat down in a divan as Smithers put away their coats.

Smithers sat beside him on the divan and began to remove his shoes. "I'll be crazy with jealousy, but I understand your reasons. I would do the same in your shoes. As long as you promise you're mine, I can cope."

"Waylon...I have some regretful news. You will be furious when you hear it."

"You felt her up, didn't you? Oh, I knew I shouldn't have left!"

"No, no. Not at all."

"Then what is it?"

Mr. Burns took a swig of brandy. "You can't come with me to Paris next week."

Smithers' face was crestfallen. "Well, I was really looking forward to that trip, but I'm saddened, not furious. I mean, it's not like you're going with Maureen..." The look in Burns' eyes said it all. "No, Monty - no! You can't pull this shit with me!" He slammed his fist onto his thigh, then grabbed his shoe and threw it hard across the room.

"Who do you think you are, ordering me around? I can do whatever the hell I feel like, and I'm going to."

"You told me you cared! If that were true, you wouldn't feel like doing the things that hurt me."

"I don't love her."

He clutched a nearby pillow and squeezed it to his chest. "But you could."

"I will come back to you."

"I want to believe you."

"I always have."

"Then kiss me like you mean it."

He gave a sorrowful smile and curled his slender fingers around Smithers' neck, stroking the back of one of his ears with an index finger as he tilted his head and wrapped his lips around Smithers'. They shared a protracted fusion of tongues and soft warm brushes of air on upper lips, Mr. Burns sliding his bony fingers down his neck and to his bow tie. He parted their lips briefly to inhale, then pulled him back by his bow tie to kiss him deeply, intensely. He withdrew, and after taking a minute to catch his breath, he said, "I've had many, many women in my day. You provide me a thrill no one else can." Smithers' eyes lit up. "And if you ever doubt me," said Mr. Burns, reaching into Smithers' pocket, "just hold this in your hand and know it's only a matter of time before I come back to you." He took out the pocket watch he had given Smithers and placed it into Smithers' hands.

"Oh, Monty...I will."

"When I get back, you will greet me at the airport, and you'll take me to my plant, and we will pull the shades to my office, and I will make love to you."

Smithers planted a multitude of kisses along his neck, dragging his lips lightly and slowly across the wrinkled skin. "I'll be there with bells on. But nothing else."

"Don't you get any ideas about tonight. I'm much too tired..." he said, yawning.

"We'll get you dressed for bed, then." He led Mr. Burns to his bedroom and changed him into his dressing gown. Mr. Burns lay on his bed, eyes drooping shut as Smithers disrobed and said, "Do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon tonight?"

Opening one eye a crack, he said, "Little spoon."

Stripped down to boxers, he laid himself down on the bed and encircled Mr. Burns. "I love you," he said, kissing him below his ear.

"I love you, too."


	12. The 39 Missteps

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 12

"Well, it's time I get going," said Smithers. "It's been a pleasure working for you this past week, Mr. Barnes." He shook the old man's hand.

"Are you sure I can't persuade you to stay on as my permanent chauffeur?"

"Sorry, Mr. Barnes. I'm spoken for."

"Well, then, farewell, Mr. Smithers."

"Farewell, Mr. Barnes," he said, then once he got into his car, he shut the door and checked his cell phone messages and dialed Homer to return his message.

His phone screen showed Homer in his hotel room. "Oh, hi, Mr. Smithers. So far so good! We're about to leave the hotel, and I've managed to keep Mr. Burns from spending too much time with Miss Tully."

"Great! I hope your family enjoyed Paris."

Marge leaned in for the camera. "I'd like to thank you again. It was very, very nice of you to pay for our trip, Mr. Smithers."

"It's the least I could do to repay Homer for keeping an eye on Monty while he's been away."

The next morning, Smithers arrived at the airport at 7:00 AM to await the arrival of Mr. Burns' private jet. He stood at the outskirts of the tarmac for the better part of an hour until at last that familiar plane descended and landed. As Mr. Burns stepped out of the plane, Smithers ran up the steps, took Mr. Burns into his arms, then whirled him 180 degrees and set him gently down onto the step below. "Monty! Oh-ho...you don't know how much I've missed you."

Mr. Burns smiled sweetly up at him. "It's good to see you, Waylon." He gave Smithers' elbow a brief squeeze. "Now take me to my plant."

"After such a long flight? Are you sure you wouldn't rather just go home?"

"And let those goldbrickers wallow in the laxity of your leadership for one more day? I don't think so."

"Your indomitable spirit for industry never ceases to awe me."

Mr. Burns placed his arm around Smithers' shoulders as any man might affably touch another as they walked to his limousine. Smithers let him in and then seated himself behind the wheel. "So, Monty? How was your trip?"

"Oh, splendid. Some French nuclear plant representatives will be visiting the plant later today. Nice fellows; you'll like them."

"And what about Maureen?"

"That domineering shrew? Apart from her ample bosom and nigh-Smithers-level worship of me, I find her wholly objectionable. Do you know what she asked me our first night at the hotel? She asked me to come into her room to 'lick her cunt'. Now, what kind of woman knows a word like that?"

"An unsavory one?"

"Exactly. Where is the fun in that conquest?"

"I don't suppose there would be any."

"I know what _you_ think, Waylon."

"It's so good to hear your snide remarks again." He inhaled slowly and deeply. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. Were you...thinking of me, too?"

"My thoughts may have drifted your way a time or two in the solitude of my hotel room."

"What kinds of thoughts?"

"I wished you were at my side so I would have someone to talk to...and to touch me."

"Well, I'm here now, love."

"I will remind you I intend to make good on my promise."

"Since you showed me my pocket watch and vowed fidelity, I haven't doubted you once."

"I meant my other promise."

"You mean..."

"Mm-hm."

"In your office? Sir, isn't that a little risky?"

"Don't sit there and act like that doesn't turn you on."

"Oh, it turns me on. I just felt it necessary to be your voice of reason. But if there's any man I'm willing to abandon reason for, it's you." He pulled into Mr. Burns' parking space. The moment he let Mr. Burns out of the car, Smithers' mouth opened in a goofy, giddy grin. He lowered his eyelids and raised a brow, staring into Burns' eyes as they walked through the building.

Mr. Burns noticed several employees gawking at them, so he narrowed his eyes and said to Smithers, "Stop looking at me like that."

Smithers reclaimed his professional comportment but still held his delighted gaze and a shy smile. Mr. Burns typed his code into the keypad to his office, and Smithers pushed the door open. He closed the door behind him by leaning back against it. "Well, Monty. I'm all yours. Use me whatever way pleases you."

Mr. Burns leaned back against the edge of his desk and raised an eyebrow suggestively, his eyelids lowered in a way that came off as equal parts sinister and seductive. "Come and get me, my rapscallion assistant." Smithers ran to the desk, lifted Mr. Burns in his arms, laid him on top of his desk, and climbed onto the desktop, straddling his legs over Burns' hips. "If you think you can seduce your boss and evade punishment, you have another think coming to you." He grabbed Smithers by the hips.

Smithers removed their belts and undid their flies, then loosened Burns' tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, exposing enough of his chest to bury his face in as he licked and kissed him. He rose his head to catch a breath. "You said you wanted to try a new aphrodisiac."

"Yes," he said, breathing labored. "Hand me the syringe in my top left drawer."

Smithers retrieved the syringe and gave it to Mr. Burns, who injected it into his thigh. Smithers dragged the waists of their pants down to their ankles and stroked Burns' genitals.

"This will be a novel experience for me – normally when I fuck an employee in my office, I keep my pants on. Oh God, _Smithers_!"

"Oh Monty, I need more of you." He kissed along his chest in desperation. "I need all of you." It was never in more stark relief that Montgomery Burns' affection was Waylon Smithers' desideratum. "Give me everything you've got." He held Mr. Burns as close to him as possible and moaned. "Monty...my love...never leave me again!"

"Talk dirty to me, Waylon."

"It makes you hard knowing I'm half your age, doesn't it? It thrills you that I crave your centenarian cock. Oh...you want my tight little ass, don't you? Well, want it or not, you've got it, and you're going to keep giving it until I say you're done. It's about time you submitted to my impulses, you cantankerous old sex bomb. After decades of denying me, your cock is mine, bitch."

"Smithers, stop it!" shouted Mr. Burns, flailing his arms. Smithers simply stared at him in dazed consternation. "Get the hell off me!"

That was when he saw.

 _Fuck._

The door-opening button had been relocated to the top of the desk after their last incident, and they'd accidentally triggered it during their foreplay. Standing before them were the French nuclear plant representatives accompanied by several executives from the Springfield plant.

"Smithers, you sick fuck, get the hell off him!" yelled one of the Springfield executives.

Smithers' pupils narrowed to pinpoints and his eyebrows rose as high as they could as he scrambled to disengage himself from Mr. Burns and frenetically zipped up. Mr. Burns did likewise, snapping his arms away from Smithers' and retreating to his chair.

"Il essaie de le violer!"

"Appellez la police," said one of the French representatives to another, and the latter began to dial in his cell phone.

"You don't understand!" cried Smithers. "It's not what it looks like! We're in love!" He turned to Mr. Burns and watched as his conflicted expression tilted to the side of sorrowful disavowal. "Aren't...we?"

"Smithers...I told you I don't feel that way about you. You promised not to make an advance, and you betrayed my trust. You...you're fired." He turned so the back of his chair faced him and his tears wouldn't show.

"Obviously you don't love me," he said, beginning to cry. "Because if you did, you would say it, right now. Three words, Monty. I gave you twenty years, and you can't give me three damn words." He wiped his eyes, displacing his glasses. "The saddest part is, I'm not even surprised."

It wasn't long before Chief Wiggum arrived with Eddie and Lou. "Waylon Smithers, you're under arrest for the sexual assault of C. Montgomery Burns. Cuff him, boys."

As Eddie locked him in handcuffs, and Lou dragged him off, Smithers turned back to face Mr. Burns and began to cry and wail hysterically. "You were the love of my life! How could you do this to me? I did nothing but love you! I loved you so damn much!"

 _Police Report: 8:53 a.m. Sexual assault reported at SNPP. Assailant identified as Waylon Smithers, Jr. Numerous witnesses corroborated the report of the victim, Charles Montgomery Burns. Mr. Smithers claimed he and the victim were in love, which the victim denied. Mr. Smithers initially claimed the encounter was consensual. His official statement, however, asserts that after Mr. Burns spurned his advances once again, he snapped and forced himself on Mr. Burns, corroborating the victim's account._

"Get up, Smithers," said Chief Wiggum, unlocking his cell. "You're out on bail."

"Who would bail me out of -" He spotted Mr. Burns in the hallway. "You have some nerve showing up here."

"Waylon, I'm sorry. I never meant for you to end up detained by the law."

"It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. I'm buying you your freedom."

"I don't want your dirty money, Monty. Not unless you make this right."

"I'll get you out of this somehow."

"The only way you can make this right is to say it. Just say it, Monty."

He whispered, "I love you."

"Tell them that, and maybe I will believe you again."

"I will come back for you, Waylon."

"I wish I could still believe that."

The day after the calamity, Smithers slept in until the afternoon, allowing his hangover from the previous night's and early morning's disconsolate imbibition to abate. Once he awoke, he got in his car and drove to the mall to indulge in a little retail therapy. He first stopped at the toy store to browse their Malibu Stacy selection. He grabbed everything in sight and at the register dropped $500 on his Malibu Stacy dolls and accessories, requiring a shopping cart to transport his purchases to his car. On his way back inside, hunger finally hit him, and he made his way to the food court.

He stopped. A jewelry store window display prominently featured a silver pocket watch studded with deep red spinel. He stood and stared, feeling around for his own watch in an interior pocket. He pulled his watch out and turned it over. He read and reread the inscription.

 _Waylon, my love, time stands still for me when we kiss._

 _Waylon, my love._

 _My love._

He replaced his watch and proceeded to the food court of the Springfield Mall. He got a plate of sesame chicken and iced tea from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Eggroll and headed for the seating area. He listened intently to the TV. The insipid feel-good fluff eased his mind, distracting him from his depressed ruminations.

Kent Brockman shuffled papers on his desk as he concluded a report. "You've heard of jay walking, but have you heard of bluejay walking? See the video of the intrepid little bird that stopped traffic crossing the road yesterday - today at 3."

Smithers watched just as attentively to the ads that followed. Krusty Burger introduces the biggest burger yet. Come visit Costington's for our annual 12% off sale! Enjoy Los Angeles elegance with the new Kia Cilantro. Coming to theaters this summer – McBain in...A Good Day to Live Free or Die Harder With a Vengeance. Bask in the freedom of Stayflex tampons.

"This is Kent Brockman, Channel 6 News. A disturbing story is sweeping Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. It's a scandal. It's sickening. It is shocking – to those who've been living under a rock, anyway – but Waylon Smithers is accused of sexually assaulting his boss, the infamous 104-year-old billionaire Charles Montgomery Burns in his office yesterday morning. A dozen witnesses corroborate the account, reporting that they found him subduing Mr. Burns, both of their pants down."

Smithers sat frozen in place, ceasing to chew the food in his mouth yet not swallowing it. He didn't dare look around him, as he knew all eyes were on him. On the TV played some cellphone video of them getting caught. He spat out the food in his mouth and let his face fall into his food as he broke down crying, listening to the rerun of his heartbroken words: "You don't understand! It's not what it looks like! We're in love! ... Aren't...we?"

"There you have it," said Brockman. "The delusional words of a deranged sexual pervert. Sorry, _'alleged'_ sexual pervert," he said, sarcasm palpable as he bent his fingers in air quotes.

He ran out of the mall to his car, dizzy, his vision clouding white as the color drained from his face. He collapsed beside his car and vomited the contents of his meal, taking massive heaving breaths between shuddering tears.

He locked himself inside his apartment, hoping he'd never have to leave again.

His liquor ran out before his food, prompting him to venture out of the apartment for the first time in three days. As he walked to his car, he noted casually that someone had spray-painted "filthy faggot" on his rear window.

When he got back to his apartment, he heard the footfalls of people walking about inside and noises emanating from within the walls. He grabbed his gun and prepared himself to use it as he opened the door. "Oh, it's only you, Sue," he said, putting his gun away at the sight of his landlady. "Why are you here? Is there a problem?"

"Oh, there was a problem, all right. But I had maintenance _take care_ of it." She motioned to the electricians beside her, and they quickly packed up their tools and left. He walked into the bathroom and flipped the light switch, but the light didn't go on. "Um, Sue? Sorry to be a bother, but you'll need to call the electricians back; this light isn't working anymore."

"Don't like it? Then leave. I don't take kindly to rapists."

"I'm not a -" She slammed the door. He pissed in the dark, then after putting his alcohol away, he lay back on his couch and turned the TV on to provide background noise as he browsed the Internet for cute and funny videos on his MyPad. After watching a few of cute animals behaving impishly, he came across a thumbnail that made his blood run cold.

It was his face. The title: "Smithers Tells All." Knowing it would be painful to watch, he felt compelled to tap the icon anyway, and the video played.

It was in a gay bar he'd been to in Capitol City a couple years earlier. He'd gotten drunk since Mr. Burns had left their hotel room to go on a date with a woman he'd met at the conference they were attending. The first minute of the video consisted of bar patrons goading him into doing ridiculous things like juggling olives and attempting tongue-twisters – the kinds of things he could laugh at himself for, and he did laugh as he watched the video. He didn't even remember most of what was in the video, so it all seemed new to him.

 _When he opened his wallet to pay, a picture of Mr. Burns fell out onto the counter. "Is that your father?" asked a man seated next to him._

" _No, that's Mr. Burns. I'm in love with him."_

" _Really? Him? You're kidding."_

" _No. I love him. I really...really love him. But he's straight."_

" _So he must have one hell of a personality, for you to look past his looks."_

" _Look past? He's_ **so** _sexy! He turns me on like crazy." He clutched the picture possessively. "Don't you get any ideas! He's mine!" He gave the picture a sloppy wet kiss._

" _You're really attracted to that old man?"_

" _Oh, yeah. I get stiff every time I see his withered old cock." He moaned, deeply immersed in fantasy as he nestled the picture against his cheek._

" _He lets you see it?"_

" _I do practically everything for him. I bathe him, I dress him, I cook for him, I clean for him, I lie for him...when he orders me around it's such a turn-on. I want him to take me so bad...oh God, I want him inside me so bad..."_

"Well, it could've been worse," he said. "Better not look at the comments." He grabbed a bottle of wine and drank straight from the bottle. He kept drinking from the bottle and watching Comedy Central until he fell asleep there.

It wasn't long before his liquor ran out again, and he had to make another trip to the liquor store. Once he got back to the apartment, bottles of gin and whisky in hand, he saw that the windows of his apartment were shattered, the interior appearing to have been ransacked, and nearly dropped the bottles of alcohol. He set the liquor save one bottle on the doorstep, went inside, and did indeed drop the bottle in his hand when he saw that his entire Malibu Stacy collection was either missing or dismembered, melted, burnt. "No! Stacy, how could they do this to you?" he said, gathering up plastic torsos and heads and cradling them in his arms. "Monsters!"

As he kneeled on the floor before his obliterated collection, his landlady Sue approached from behind. "You've let this place get to be in an appalling condition. You have three days to get it cleaned up and in compliance with health and fire codes, or you'll be out on your ass faster than you can say, 'ass'."

"But vandals did this! I would never wreck my Malibu Stacy dolls, no matter how drunk I was!"

"Three. Days."

Two days later, while contractors worked on his apartment, Smithers stood in line at the cash register of The Fruitful Garden, the grocery boutique he frequented in Springfield's gay district, with a basket full of vegetables, bruschetta, gourmet chocolate, and a baguette to replenish his depleted food supply. The person ahead of him finished checking out, and he set his basket on the counter.

The man behind the register wordlessly took the basket and placed it on a counter behind him. "Get out of here."

"Excuse me?"

"Treacherous scum like you aren't welcome here. Thanks for reinforcing people's homophobic ideas that we gay men are a bunch of sexual predators who can't control ourselves and force ourselves on straights. Not."

"It's not true! It was consensual."

"Your lies are poisoning the ambiance. Mr. Burns is obviously straight, and you even confessed to the police."

"I only did that because I didn't want to out him. Please, you have to believe me."

"Actually, I don't have to do anything you say. Now get the hell out of my store and don't show your ugly face here again, or I'm calling the cops."

He trudged out, shoulders slumped in dejection. He got into his car and drove to the Springfield Grocery Store. _I promised I wouldn't shop here again after they sent Mr. Burns to the old folk's home. But Mr. Burns promised he would be faithful to me, and he had no compunction about breaking that vow._ While he strolled down the aisles, filling his cart, he tried to ignore the whispered revulsion from fellow shoppers.

And then, a surly, gravelly female voice broke through his mental shield. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Patty," he said, "listen, I can explain." She and Selma exchanged a skeptical glance. He pulled in close and whispered, "Monty and I have been having an affair. We only pretended it wasn't consensual to protect his reputation."

"He's delusional." said Selma.

Patty nodded. "Get help, Waylon."

"I'm serious. He really wanted it; he practically threw himself at me."

"That sounds just like any rapist claiming it was consensual."

"We've had sex several times this month, and he initiated. It was a romance; I thought we were in love."

"You keep telling yourself that. That doesn't make it true."

"Then why would I have this?" He fished the pocket watch from his pocket and showed them. "It's a custom-made platinum and ruby watch."

Their eyes went wide, impressed. "Holy moly!" said Selma. She looked at the back and read the inscription. "He's right!"

Patty narrowed her eyes in doubt. "It could just be silver with knockoff gemstones. You could afford something like that on your salary."

"This is the certificate of authenticity," he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper, which listed its price at the end.

Patty dropped her jaw. "Holy shit, you're telling the truth!" She gave the watch back. "You've got to show this to the police!"

"No. I can't out him. It's up to him whether he exonerates me."

"It's your funeral."


	13. 500 Days of Smithers

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 13

Homer, Bart, and Lisa sat in the living room watching TV while Marge prepared dinner. Kent Brockman spoke, "Next on tonight's program, Waylon Smithers: Profile of a Pervert – Waylon Smithers authored a series of articles published in gay men's pornographic lifestyle magazine Gayboy under the pseudonym Sloane Whitsmyr. Then, his Gaydr app profile reveals his scandalous secret life, including such debauchery as soliciting casual sex in restrooms while out of town for conferences.

"The magazine articles, published in the gay man's answer to Playboy, covered the topics of rising in the corporate ladder as a closeted gay man, and how to pick up men for casual sex. He also had published a pornographic story involving a man and his older boss called, 'He Gave Me a Huge Raise'."

Lisa said, "None of this is an example of him being a sexual predator; it's just a lot of homophobic fear-mongering masquerading as criminal profiling."

Marge walked in and said, "Children, I don't think this program is appropriate for you to watch."

"Oh, come on, Marge. Kids these days know all about sex. The boy even worked in a burlesque house." She gave a disapproving "Mmm..."

The doorbell rang, and Homer and the kids all said, "Not it!" simultaneously. Even Maggie smacked her pacifier twice as if to say, "Not it." Marge rolled her eyes and answered the door. Patty and Selma stood before her. "Hi, Patty, Selma. What brings you two over here?" Homer shrieked and hid behind the couch.

"You won't believe this," said Selma.

Before Marge could say anything, Patty jumped in with, "Mr. Burns was screwing Smithers!"

Marge said, "What?"

Patty said, "They were lovers. They'd been going at it for a month. Mr. Burns pretended it was an assault so people wouldn't find out, and Waylon went along with it because he's a romantic fool."

"Oh my God, so he's innocent? I feel so bad now for judging him."

* * *

After three days of nearly nonstop cleaning, he had made a valiant effort at fixing the place, having hired people to do some of the more difficult tasks such as fixing the wiring, but even for the professionals, three days wasn't enough to get things completely in working order. Sue made an exceedingly thorough inspection, dinging him for anything that could be construed as a code violation.

"You've failed. Now get the hell out of here."

Smithers took a long walk in a light rain, as he was given to do when he felt pessimistic about his relationship with Mr. Burns, which had been often. The light rain became a downpour. Seeing Moe's nearby, he took shelter from the storm, a deafening crack of thunder from a nearby lightning strike reverberating as he swung the door open.

"Awful turn of weather," he said, shaking off some of the water from his clothes before taking a seat at a bar stool. Lenny, Carl, and Barney leaned away from him. "Hi, Moe. I'd like a gin and tonic."

"Yeah, about that...you ain't welcome in my bar no more."

"But wh- oh. Right."

Homer walked into the bar. "Hey, Moe! How's it going?"

"I'll be with you in a minute, Homer; I got a little situation here."

"No, no," said Smithers. "I understand. I'll leave."

Homer turned to Moe. "You'll never guess what I found out last night! Mr. Burns has been doing it with Smithers for the last month." Smithers waved his hands across each other and mouthed, 'no, no'. "They're a couple!"

"Were a couple," said Smithers. "I mean, I wish we were a couple."

"He only said Smithers was assaulting him because he didn't want anyone to know."

"Get out of here, Homer," said Carl. "Mr. Burns isn't gay."

Moe said, "Yeah, that's that stupidest thing I ever heard."

"Smithers, show them the watch."

"Homer, no -"

"It'll _prove_ you're innocent."

"Shut _up_ , Simpson!" He led Homer to the door and once outside, said, "They can't know. I chose to go along with the ruse to protect Mr. Burns' reputation."

"Why would you do that? He obviously doesn't care about protecting your reputation."

Smithers' eyes grew laden with sorrow. "I know. But I still love him. As stupid as that may sound...I still hope he'll come back to me. He promised..."

"Pfft. How many promises has Mr. Burns actually kept?"

"It's different! He promised to _me_...you didn't see the look in his eyes."

"Did _you_? Or did you just see what you wanted to see?"

Smithers wiped a tear from his eye. "You know, when Mr. Burns has shut me out in the past, I would stand by the gate until he forgave me for my trespasses."

"Did it ever work?"

"Always."

"Smithers, get in my car. We're going to win back Mr. Burns for you!" He congenially put one arm around Smithers' shoulder and raised the other determinedly in the air, then opened the passenger's side door for him.

"Thank you, Homer. You're a true friend," he said, getting in the car. "Call me Waylon."

"Sure thing," said Homer, sitting behind the wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and they headed for Burns Manor. "So...Waylon," he said, tapping his fingers nervously on the wheel, "how has life in the crap lane been?"

"Awful. Everyone thinks I was trying to rape Mr. Burns. I've been cut off from my community, and people have vandalized my car, my apartment, and worst of all, my Malibu Stacy collection. Vandals wrecked the apartment so bad I couldn't get it fixed in time, so my landlady evicted me. I have nothing left. Nothing but..." He stroked the inscription of his watch, keeping it in his interior pocket. "If he were here to see what I was going through, he would intercede. I know he would. He's just too out-of-touch with how life works for the rank and file to understand how difficult this is on me."

"Where are you going to live?"

"I'll live outside by his gate until he takes me back."

"What if he doesn't?"

"I'll live in my car. Then, after the trial, in a prison cell."

"No. I won't stand by and let that happen. If he doesn't come around, you can stay with us."

"That's very generous of you. I hope I don't have to take you up on that offer, though."

Homer pulled up to the gate of Burns Manor. "Good luck!"

"Thanks," he said, smiling as he waved him away. He then turned to the security camera and intercom button and spoke softly. "Monty. I know we've had many ups and downs in our relationship – and I don't just mean the last couple months. I mean the last twenty years. Despite your often cold disposition, I have always held out hope that you would come through for me, because I knew that deep down, you really cared for me. Well, Monty...I'm not so sure about that, anymore.

"I've put myself through hell just to keep people from thinking you're homosexual – that you're like me. Are you really so ashamed of what I am? You're a rich man in the 21st century; if people find out about us, you won't lose your millions of dollars. You won't lose your beautiful mansion. You won't lose your reputation in the community as the most powerful and feared man in Springfield. You know what I _have_ lost, for you? I've lost my job. I've lost my humble apartment. I've lost my reputation in the community as a person with even a shred of decency. And I'm about to lose my freedom.

"Countless times, I've given you everything I have to give, expecting nothing in return. Now, I'm asking you. Please. Please, Monty. If you care about me. Keep your promise to me. Exonerate me."

He released the button, allowing Mr. Burns the opportunity to reply. Five minutes passed in silence save the driving rain and rumbling of thunder. He held out his watch to the security camera, turning it so the inscription was in full view of the lens. "Come back to me, Monty." He stood for another ten minutes before falling to his knees, holding the watch up in front of the camera, his arms stretched straight up. "I still love you, Monty. God knows why, but I love you still."

A bright light shone in his eyes, growing brighter and shifting erratically as the familiar sound of Burns' car engine grew louder. The gate opened and Mr. Burns drove through, slowly at first, then speeding past him and rounding the corner. Smithers cupped his hands over his eyes as he wept in the mud.

Mr. Burns' car stopped, then backed up slowly, stopping a few yards away from him. "Smithers..." he beckoned, patting the passenger seat. Smithers pulled himself up from the mud, and they drove back in front of the mansion's entrance.

"Waylon, I never meant for this to happen," he said, stroking the back of Smithers' hands with his own.

"I know you didn't," He rotated his hands so their fingers curled together. "But we're here now, and you have to make a choice."

"I wish I could help you, Waylon."

"You could help me if you really wanted."

"We both know I can't do that."

"I know. You'd rather see me spend a year in prison than have your country club friends think you're a homosexual."

"I knew you would understand."

"Oh, I understand, Monty. I would never out you to the public; you know that. That's why I confessed."

"You are so good, Waylon," he said, gently stroking Smithers' cheek.

Smithers pulled away. "Good? I'm a fucking saint. I've taken a lot of bullets for you... Everyone in that prison knows I'm gay, knows I lust after you. You know how much worse they'll treat me, knowing that? They will beat the shit out of me over and over again and rape me and mock me and rape me. What's even worse? They'll make me register as a sex offender for the rest of my life, and everyone in Springfield already thinks I was trying to rape you." He grimaced. "I wish I never loved you."

"Waylon...my love..."

"Don't 'Waylon my love' me! I gladly tolerated going to prison for you when I was saving you from that fate, but how could you let me go to prison when your ass isn't even on the line and have the gall to still call me your love?"

"I do still love you...as much as I can."

"That's not enough for me, Monty. If that really is the best you can do, we might as well go back to a strictly business relationship, because your indifference to my suffering is incompatible with love. I'd rather you were honest about seeing me as nothing more than your lackey than professing your love until it becomes inconvenient. I can understand treating a lackey this way, but that is not how you treat a lover."

"I think I know how to treat a lover," he said, kissing Smithers.

Smithers pushed him away. "I don't want to look at you."

"I know you still want me," he said, moving in for another kiss.

"No! It's over!" He stepped out of the car. "I've had enough of your platinum lies!" He slammed the door, rifled through his pocket, and threw the watch to the ground.

"Waylon, do you mean to say...?"

"We're through! I don't want to see you again!" He stormed off, rapid walking becoming jogging becoming sprinting. If he let himself slow down, he knew he would knuckle under.

Mr. Burns bent down with great difficulty and picked up the watch. His lips quavered as he held it close to his heart and winced. Some tears began to drip out from his plaintive eyes, the rain washing them away. He took in short, sharp, gasping breaths as he broke down crying, slowly falling until his body was draped over the hood of his car. "Smithers..." he called feebly, his forehead thumping against metal. "Smithers..."

"Monty, look at me." At the sound of the voice, he tilted his head up to see the transparent form of Waylon Smithers, Sr. "Look me in the eyes and tell me how you could do this to my boy."

"I didn't plan for it to turn out this way! It's those French bastards' fault for getting the police involved."

"But you're the one who broke his heart."

"I am a cad, I know. But it's too late for me to change now. He's clearly much too good for me." He began to cry weakly. "He'll never be mine again." He reached into his pocket and took out a gold pocket watch. He turned it over and stroked the inscription.

 _I love you, Monty._


	14. Burns Song Trilogy

A Smithers Named Desire

Chapter 14

 **Author Note: The song _Save Me_ by Queen goes perfectly with this part of the story.**

Once he had gotten to a safe distance from Burns Manor, one at which he felt sure he could fight off the urge to go running back to him, to yield to his passions in that car, to trade in his dignity for a night of hedonistic bliss, he dialed Homer's number. "Hi, it's Waylon. Could you pick me up? I'm at 70 Croesus Road. Thanks." He put his phone away and stood there for the next fifteen or so minutes until Homer's pink car pulled up beside him.

He got in, and as Homer started driving, he said, "Sorry it didn't work out."

Smithers sighed. "I've been a fool. I can't believe I ever let myself believe he loved me."

"What did you ever see in him, anyway?"

"Oh...he has that old-world charm, you know? He's powerful, yet frail. His wit is beyond compare; God, I love a witty man. And he really is sweet deep inside. He does his damnedest to suppress it, but I've practically lived with him for twenty years – he couldn't hide it from me forever. And there is just something about him, his distinguished posture, the way his skin hugs his ribs, his playfully sinister eyes, his infectious malevolent smile, the liver spots on his balding head; there is just something about him I'm intensely attracted to."

"The way you talk about him sounds nothing like how most people in Springfield would describe him."

"Does anyone in Springfield know him better than I do?"

"Well, no, I guess not."

"I can't believe it's all over."

Homer, not knowing what to say, said, "Hey, some tunes will cheer you up!" He turned the radio on, and the song 'Save Me' by Queen began to play. By the end of the song, Smithers was bawling. "Eh, maybe music isn't such a good idea." He turned the radio off.

When they pulled into the driveway, Smithers regained his composure and followed Homer inside. Marge said, "Homie, where have you been? I called Moe's and he said you left without having any beer!"

"I decided to go to Krusty Burger instead while I waited for Smithers to call. He got kicked out, and I told him he could stay with us for awhile."

"That was very generous of you," she said, beaming with pride. "Mmm...but I'm not sure we can do much to accommodate you, Mr. Smithers."

"Please, call me Waylon," he said. "And I'm perfectly content to sleep on the couch. Or the floor, if you prefer."

"Let me get you some dry clothes," she said, leaving to dig some of Homer's old clothes out of a closet. "These are his smallest pants." She held up a pair that still looked quite big. "I hope they'll do."

"Mrs. Simpson, as long as they aren't sopping wet, they're more than fine."

"Please, call me Marge."

"Thank you, Marge," he said, taking the clothes in his hands. He headed to the bathroom to change.

Marge turned to Homer. "That poor man."

When Smithers returned, he said, "I borrowed a belt to keep my pants up. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," said Marge. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Some hot tea would be wonderful right about now."

"Coming right up," she said, going to the kitchen to boil the water.

He followed her inside. "You don't have to make it for me."

"It's no trouble at all. Take a seat."

"Thanks," he said, sitting down. "It's so strange having someone else prepare something for me."

She pulled up a chair at the table and sat. "I hope you don't think I'm being impertinent, but I have to ask: why do you keep protecting Mr. Burns after all he's done to you?"

"I don't know. Why do you put up with Homer's shenanigans? It's love, nobody knows why or what the hell is going on."

"I hardly think that's a good comparison. Homer can be inconsiderate, but he would never stab any of us in the back like that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend. I just meant that the heart isn't always rational."

Bart walked into the kitchen. "So, Mr. Smithers, now that your hubby's left you, what's your plan?"

"I'll have to get a new job and hope they don't put me in prison. When I've saved up enough money, I'll move to a new apartment. Start over."

Lisa walked in. "The way Mr. Burns is treating you is unconscionable! How could you love such a horrible old man?"

"He grew up in a very different time from you or me. Admitting he has feelings for me is a terrifying proposition for him. It'll take time, but he'll come through for me." He took a sip of tea. "I hope." He shut his eyes and hung his head low. "I just hope it's before I get sent to prison."

Homer walked in, tittering. "I still can't get over you thinking he's sexy! He's _so_ old!"

"Hey, I don't make fun of Marge for being into a fat guy like you, God only knows why."

"But I'm a man and you're gay. You have to find me attractive!"

"You realize that logic contradicts your initial objection, right?"

"Counter dicks in the what now?"

"I'm not attracted to you, Homer." He sipped his tea. "I want to thank you again for taking me in. I can't afford much right now, but I want to give you $200 for the month."

"Oh, no, you don't have to do that," said Marge.

"No, I insist." He wrote out a check and slid it across the table to her.

Two weeks passed, and on his way to the front door, he heard Marge and Homer talking about him on the couch and so hid in a closet to eavesdrop on their conversation. "If he just sold the damn thing, he would have all the money he needed and move out."

"No, Homer, it's all he has left. We can't ask him to sell it."

"So we're just going to let him sit on a quarter million dollars while he mooches off us?"

"He's not mooching; he gave us $200. That should cover the extra food expenses. Or it would've if you hadn't blown it on virtual donuts for that stupid Virtual Springfield MyPad game!"

"I bought those premium items for you!"

"What would I want with a virtual Duff Brewery, Mount Springfield, and Springfield Gorge?"

"Virtual you and virtual me are going on dates there as part of a quest!"

"Aw, that's sweet. But still a waste of money..."

"Well, I'm off to go bowling," he said, making his way to the closet to retrieve his bowling ball. He opened the door and upon seeing Smithers, casually remarked, "What are you doing in the closet? Everyone already knows you're queer." He gave a bemused laugh at his pun. "Could you hand me my bowling ball? It's up there on the shelf."

"Oh - of course," he said, reaching up for it.

"Hey, what were you doing in the closet, anyway?"

"Oh, um..." he accidentally knocked over the bowling ball, which sent a couple other boxes tumbling to the ground. One of them opened to expose a skull, and Smithers recoiled, at first not apprehending where it could possibly have come from. Then it hit him. "Oh...my...God..."

Homer said, "Uh-oh," preparing for a tongue-lashing.

Instead, he spoke in helpless perplexion and hurt. "Why do you have my father's skull in your closet?"

"Um...uh...you see... Gotta go!" He left with his bowling ball and sped off in his car.

Marge said in an aggravated tone, "I told him to give that back months ago." She knelt by Smithers and patted his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I'm sure he just forgot."

As she walked away, he said, "I couldn't sell it anyway."

"Huh?"

"My watch. I threw it to the ground when I left Monty."

"You threw a quarter-million dollar watch?"

"I know, I know, but I was angry. He needed to know I meant it when I said we were through."

"I understand. I did something similar when I left Homer after he got Springfield trapped in that dome. I taped over our wedding video so we would both know it really was the end."

"But he came back to you."

"Yes, he did. But Waylon," she said, looking to her feet, "I wouldn't count on Mr. Burns coming back for you."

"I don't," he said. "But I still hope." He left the house and drove off to look for a place that would hire him.

Shortly thereafter, the doorbell rang. Marge opened it and said, "Hello, Ned. What brings you here?"

"Now, I don't mean to be a me-diddly-eddler, but I feel it's my duty to inform you the man you've taken in is known to be a pre-diddly-edator."

"Ned, I know about the allegations, but they're not true. I wouldn't let him be in the same house as my children if they were."

"Now Marge, don't be a naive nelly. He confe-diddly-essed to the crime."

"He was covering for Mr. Burns! Mr. Burns wanted to make love to him but then threw him under the bus when they got caught! If anyone should be going to jail, it's him. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some vacuuming to catch up on."

* * *

"I hope you enjoy dinner tonight," said Smithers, bringing in some trays of food. "I've prepared cheese soufflé, confit de canard, onion soup, and a salad featuring chickpeas, onion, tomato, cheese, dried cranberries, pecans, and homemade croutons with a homemade balsamic vinaigrette."

"This is all so luxurious," said Marge. "What's confit de canard?"

"It's duck cooked in its own fat." He turned to Lisa and handed her a plate with stuffed mushrooms. "I also made some quinoa-stuffed portobello mushrooms for the vegetarian of the house."

"Thanks, Mr. Smithers." She took a bite. "This is fantastic!"

"You really don't have to go to all this trouble," said Marge.

"Oh, it's no trouble. It's the least I can do. Besides, it makes me feel at home to cook for others. Cooking helps me take my mind off my troubles. And with court tomorrow...I have no shortage of those." There was no lively conversation at the table that evening, just silence punctuated by occasional two-sentence exchanges.

The next day in court, Smithers stared at Mr. Burns with dolorous eyes. Mr. Burns returned his mournful gaze, then averted his eyes in shame. The Simpson family sat in a row near the front, Lisa holding up a sign saying, "Tell the truth!"

Lionel Hutz took the stand. "Your honor, since the defendant confessed and we have an affidavit from the victim, this is clearly an open and shut case," he said. Then, remembering which side he was being paid to defend, he quickly added, "But I want you to grant him leniency. This is a man who pined for his boss for over twenty years and was often treated shabbily despite his endless devotion. And let's face it, most of this town wanted him dead just a few months ago when he blocked out the sun, so wouldn't it be just a little hypocritical for us to condemn Mr. Smithers for using him in a moment of weakness?"

Mr. Burns stood. "Ahem. I need to take the stand."

"Thank you, Mr. Burns, but your affidavit is sufficient testimony to convict him," said the judge.

"But Smithers is innocent." Smithers clenched his eyes shut, his head lolling back as he relished and savored the moment.

"That's not what you wrote in this affidavit," said the blue-haired lawyer. "Besides, he already confessed."

"Oh, affidavit shmafidavit! He also confessed to shooting me, but he was innocent of that crime as well."

"But there were half a dozen witnesses who corroborated his story, which was also your story."

"It's true that Smithers threw himself at me like a ravenous beast securing its prey. He sat atop me and removed my trousers with lascivious intent. But he is innocent."

"How is that possible?"

"Because I kissed him first." The people in the courtroom gasped, then hushed. "I had found out about his homophilic proclivities, and I admit to a mild curiosity about it. So I gave it the old college try. He reciprocated my advance, and I made no effort to stop him. I was too embarrassed to let anyone know I had wanted any part in it, so I panicked and blamed him."

"So you consented to the kiss. Did you also consent to his touching your genitals?"

He gulped. "Yes."

"And this was your first foray into homosexual activity?"

"Yes."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Is this a shameful attempt to satisfy your prurient interest or is there a damned point to this line of questioning?"

"It's relevant because if you didn't like it, then why would you allow him to proceed instead of cutting him off? Or did he just jump straight to genital groping? Seems a bit presumptuous of him to think you'd want to go that far for your first same-sex encounter."

"He's been my punctilious assistant for twenty years. He knows better than anyone whether I am gratified, and he would never impose himself on me if I weren't."

"And why did you act so frightened and disgusted? It sounds more like you're trying to cover for him, as if you were being intimidated."

"Yes, I enjoyed him, damn it! And I'm not covering for him, you blithering idiot, he's covering for me so my love for him doesn't become public knowledge!" His face fell as he realized what he'd just admitted to. He smiled warmly at Smithers, who stared, transfixed. "I do love you, Waylon."

"So you falsely accused him of sexual assault to preserve your own reputation?"

"At first, yes. I still saw him as my sycophantic employee. Now I know he is and long has been my significant other. That is, provided he'll still have me."

Smithers wore the biggest smile he could muster as his eyes welled with tears. "Of course I will, Monty." Mr. Burns left the stand, approached Smithers, and embraced him. Smithers wearily gave him a few gentle squeezes. The others in the courtroom let out a collective "aww".

Mr. Burns pulled the pocket watch out of his coat and gave it back to Smithers. "Make time stop for me, Waylon." Smithers kissed him with the need of a man who'd been deprived of oxygen for minutes on end, and for the first time in their relationship, he knew without a doubt that Monty loved him with all his heart.


	15. Epilogue

A Smithers Named Desire

Epilogue

"I've revised your contract," said Mr. Burns, reclining in his office chair beside Smithers, both of their feet resting on the desk. "You'll find the document most _engaging_. I'll need you to read and sign it post-haste." He handed Smithers a clipboard with a few pages stapled together, and Smithers flipped to the end and signed and dated. Mr. Burns made flustered sounds. "Aren't you going to read it first?"

"Why? You know I'll sign it no matter what it says."

"It does matter, you impudent young upstart. Now read the damn thing already!"

As he read, he said, "I don't see the difference from my old contract yet."

"Keep reading."

He scanned the text in search of the new clause, curiosity piqued about what made this revision so interesting that it should command his full attention. "Engagement clause? _'I hereby agree to live with C. Montgomery Burns and act as his eternal companion, supplying support, affection, and sexual exclusivity as long as we both are living. In return, C. Montgomery Burns agrees to supply same to me, Waylon Smithers, Jr., and to never deny his affection for me again.'_ You...you're asking me to marry you."

"Well...do you agree to these terms?"

"Oh, I do! I do, I do, I do!" He buried his face in Burns' chest.

"In that case, I have something for you." He opened his drawer and opened a little box. "Give me your hand, Waylon."

"Absolutely." He splayed out the fingers of his left hand and let Mr. Burns put a platinum ring channel set with princess-cut diamonds on his ring finger. "What kind of ceremony do you want?"

"I don't care, as long as you don't have any sappy romantic music playing. You take care of the planning."

"You can count on me, dear."

 **Yes, I will probably write a sequel. I will have to come up with a plot first, though.**


End file.
